Sand Castles
by Burning Stars
Summary: "Let them perish amidst the ashes of their humanity." Welcome to the Eighty-First Hunger Games.
1. And So It Begins

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

**Asteria Quinton, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

Verdant hills roll across the sunlit landscape, dotted with the shadows that fall from broken white clouds above. The curve of the sky holds a deep, pure blue, kept clean and polished by strong summertime winds. Aliveness permeates every corner of the afternoon.

Along the cobblestone pathway I walk, passing magnificent topiaries and carpets of blooming color, all guided from the time of their genesis to follow intricate geometric shapes and flowing, elegant patterns. Someone in the upper echelon decided to keep Snow's lavish gardens alive and well even after the President's untimely death.

I halt in front of a seated man who is, according to his birth records, forty-eight years old, even though he appears no older than thirty. The entirety of his attention is focused on the computerized tablet that rests in his hands, and he takes a full three and a half seconds to notice my arrival.

Hyperion stands from the stone bench and greets me with a bright smile, the kind that's meant to overshadow the fact he's withholding something.

I should know. That same type of smile has graced my lips hundreds of times.

"Asteria," he says, holding out his hand. "What a nice surprise."

I return the handshake, narrowing my eyes. "You invited me here. I highly doubt my presence in any way _surprises _you."

Placing the tablet in his jacket pocket, he says, "And aren't you just pleasant as always?"

I offer him a grin as artificial as the one he gave me. "Only for you, Hyperion."

"Oh, you and your flattery." He gestures toward the portion of the garden that I have yet to traverse. "Walk with me."

We set off at a pace slow enough to put snail to shame.

"Tell me, Quinton," he begins, deftly picking a white rose from one of the strictly-maintained bushes without pricking his fingers on the needle-like thorns. "How goes the arena? Your assistant says that everything's nearly ready for launch."

Rolling my eyes, I scoff. "Underestimating and downplaying the issues at hand. How very typical of Helia."

Hyperion frowns. "Have a little faith."

"You don't understand," I say, facing the sky. "There are exactly two hundred and seventeen command sequences that must be executed perfectly within the first minute of launch. As the arena progresses, another one hundred and forty eight commands need to be maintained - _simultaneously_ - in order to keep the tributes from burning up, freezing to death, dying of asphyxiation, or suffering any other sort of premature death. Two of the most important muttations were improperly spliced and subsequently died last week, leaving me with only six survivors to work with." Turning to him with a sneer, I add "And that's a mere fraction of my worries. In all likelihood, some unforeseen and game-breaking issue will crop up during the most dramatic fight, and once this is all over, I'll find myself tied to a rock at the bottom of a lake."

Hyperion laughs, though it's more of an exhalation through his nose than an actual demonstration of joviality. "You mean like Crane? Amaranthine? Castillo? Heavensbee?" He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. "Quinton, you are the crème de la crème. You possess more good judgment and skill in one incessantly-bitten fingernail than the rest of them put together." He pauses in the walkway and places his hand on my shoulder. "I have confidence in your abilities, Asteria. I really do."

I shrug him off and continue down the path, forcing him to catch up. "Unfounded trust ranks among the greatest of human follies, Thaddeus. It would be a critical failure on the part of someone like yourself to make such baseless assumptions."

Beside me, I can practically feel him rolling his eyes. "Oh, please. The work you've done thus far on the arena has more than proven your worth as Head Gamemaker."

I cock an eyebrow. "Coin doesn't seem to think so. If the rumors are to be believed, she positively detests me."

"And since when have you thought of rumors as valid sources of information?"

Letting my head roll back, I send him a sidelong glare. "You and I both know it's true."

Hyperion raises his hands in exasperated placation. "She's never doubted your capabilities. Merely your conviction."

Despite the overwhelming urge to slap him, I know that at least eight of his guards are deftly hidden among the trees and bushes, all with their scopes trained on me. It would only take one bullet from some overzealous guard to end me. With great effort, I manage to stay my hand.

"Doubt my conviction? You mean bring up the fact that I hail from District One every chance she gets."

"She only-"

"My place of origin should have nothing to do with how she perceives my work!" I turn to him, the fire rising in my gut. The garden's crushing silence doesn't prevent me from raising my voice. "But because I'm from District One, that makes me a traitor in her eyes. After all, the Hunger Games have taken, what, one-hundred-and-fifty-one children from my district over the past eighty years? Truly, my wish to engineer an arena must make me an absolutely abhorrent _monster_."

"She may not understand your motivations," he says, an irritatingly patronizing tone weaving its way into his words, "but that has no impact on her appreciation of the art you've created."

I throw my head back with a harsh laugh. "Ha! The day she refers to my work as 'art' is the day I succeed Katniss Everdeen as the Mockingjay."

Hyperion squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Asteria, I'm not going to spend the next fifteen minutes trying to convince you that everything will work out, because neither of us have time to waste on such a hopeless venture. Just answer me this: within the next ten days, will the Eighty-First arena be ready for launch or not?"

I press my lips into a line and give him the iciest glare I can muster. "It will."

"Then you're worrying yourself over nothing." The nature of his voice implies that our conversation is nearly over. "You simply have to put on a good show."

"Yes, of course," I say, intentionally letting the vitriol seep into my words. He speaks to me as if I am a child. I've devoted an entire year of my life to this project, and I am well aware of what's riding on my shoulders. "Wouldn't want to disappoint you, now, would I?"

He dismissively waves me off. "I'm sure you won't. In any case, I hope the next few days treat you well." I pause, but he continues on, leaving me behind as he wanders through the roses. "I do love our little talks, Asteria. You should check in more often."

Shaking my head with contempt, I turn back towards the Presidential estate. Hyperion's flippant attitude brings into question how he ever managed to maintain power after Snow's untimely demise. Only fools discount the perils of failure.

And I am no fool.

* * *

**Yes, another SYOT. Yaaaay.**

**Welcome to the Eighty-First Hunger Games.**

**This isn't first come, first serve. I'll only be accepting one tribute per person, though you can submit as many tributes as you like. Submissions will close a week from today. If I don't have all of the tributes I need, I'll re-open submissions until I do.  
**

**Also ****I'm lazy, so there won't be any sponsor system.**

*****PLEASE, DO NOT SUBMIT TRIBUTES BY REVIEW. ONLY BY PM.  
**

**Now, for those of you who read Atmosphere, you might be expecting a certain pre-arena chapter schedule. This time, however, I will only be writing 6 pre-arena chapters: 2 for the prologue (including this one), and 4 concerning the actual tributes and their time in the Capitol. Each tribute will get 1 POV during these 4 chapters. I'm doing this because I hate the reapings, interviews, etc. and want to get to the arena as fast as possible whilst retaining as much characterization as I can. **

**FYI, this isn't going to be a standard 24-tribute arena. The details, background, guidelines for submission, and tribute sheet are all on my profile. The list of tributes on my profile is up-to-date, as well.**

**Thank you for reading this, and if you're interested in submitting, please do! I look forward to seeing all of the tributes.**


	2. Rhythm of a Stone Heart

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Asteria Quinton, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

I throw open my office door and find Helia siting in the corner, legs crossed and foot bobbing up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Sent by Hyperion to monitor and aid the development of the arena, she functions as more of a judgmental, incompetent gnat than an actual assistant.

"The files you asked for," Helia says, nonchalantly holding up an electronic notepad. "Jersey brought them for you this morning."

I pluck the thin piece of black metal from her hand and scroll through the reams of information, my smile growing with each passing second. "Excellent."

He sent everything I asked for. How kind.

"Also, Anne managed to stabilize the other six muttations that you were worried about," my assistant says. "They're ready for deployment as soon as you send word."

I absently wave her off. Drumming my nails against the white marble tabletop, I direct my attention to a specific file among the dozens that Jersey gave me. "Helia, did Jersey mention what 'Axiom' referred to?"

Staring blankly out of the window, she recites, "An axiom is something that people accept as self-evidently true."

I roll my eyes. Yet again, I'm reminded that the space between her ears only consists of empty space. "Thank you for that vocabulary lesson, Ms. Toogood. Now, if you would be so kind as to recall whether or not Jersey specifically used the word 'Axiom' when speaking with you earlier, I would be most appreciative."

Narrowing her bright orange eyes, she lets her mouth fall open in with a look of such complete stupidity that I truly wish she meant it in jest, even though I know better. "Uh. He might have. It might have something to do with the mentors, but he didn't elaborate any further."

The mentors? What could that possibly mean? Jersey wouldn't send me anything in code unless he knew I would understand, though. But 'Axiom'? It doesn't-

_Oh._

A loose strand of hair falls in front of my eyes. "Nevermind, Helia. I think I know what he intended."

She drags her gaze to meet mine. "Oh? Care to share?"

I simply grin. "You'll see."

Jersey definitely delivered. I'll have to thank him later.

But in the meantime, it's my responsibility to launch the arena as smoothly as possible. It's my duty to embody the the authoritarian Panem regime, and demonstrate their mercy by allowing one wholly undeserving tribute to survive. And it's my privilege to destroy twenty-eight children in the most extravagant manner possible. Even the victor. Their deaths are on my hands, but the murder will be discrete; I'll simply watch as they perish amidst the ashes of their humanity.

May the odds be ever in their favor.

* * *

**sandcastleshungergames. blogspot .com (the link is on my profile)  
**

**A big thank you to everyone who submitted! Just look at all of these lovely tributes.**

**District Zero Male**: Solaris Noven, 18  
**District Zero Female**: Etiliasè Castriel, 17

**District One Male**: Adonis Belmont, 18  
**District One Female**: Amelithe Arvantis, 17

**District Two Male**: Sebastian Flynn, 18  
**District Two Female**: Venera Toulley, 18

**District Three Male**: Steven Krane, 17  
**District Three Female**: Nieve Oswald, 16

**District Four Male**: Lapis Maccolade, 18  
**District Four Female**: Azure Henderstern, 18

**District Five Male**: Stark Everglade, 17  
**District Five Female**: Vespera Zona, 18

**District Six Male**: Apatura Lane, 15  
**District Six Female**: Rion Farrow, 16

**District Seven Male**: Jorah Horne, 18  
**District Seven Female**: Padoa Artelle, 16

**District Eight Male**: Julian Mardale, 17  
**District Eight Female**: Valorie Hollin, 14

**District Nine Male**: Barnabas Gringlam, 16  
**District Nine Female**: Alina Clout, 17

**District Ten Male**: Sterling Loaker, 18  
**District Ten Female**: Fenby Frost, 18

**District Eleven Male**: Kyrie Lilitu, 13  
**District Eleven Female**: Zea Tillman, 16

**District Twelve Male**: Nix Sootclaw, 16  
**District Twelve Female**: Ionette Exon, 15

**District Thirteen Male**: Rufous Mineheimer, 14  
**District Thirteen Female**: Evaine Berrach, 17

**As you can see, I might have tweaked your tribute's age or placed them in a different district than you expected. I tried to let everyone know about these changes beforehand, but if I didn't, I apologize. **

**The next chapter should be posted within the next week.**

**In the meantime, I'd greatly appreciate if you'd let me know what you think of the tributes, judging purely from the blog. Any early favorites or curiosities?**

***Keep in mind that Districts 1, 2, 4, and 7 are all considered Career districts.**


	3. Gilded Lips, Bloody Teeth

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Apatura Lane, District Six Male**

* * *

_ You filthy child. Why must you do these things?_

I brush the morphling's hair out of his eyes. His smiling throat keeps whispering things to me. A single voice among a chorus of the dead.

Little swirls of silver steam rise from the gaping chasm, the air abnormally cold for a summer night. Black blood drips down my fingers, shining like quicksilver underneath the full moon. Frigid wind runs through the silhouetted trees above, and though I strain my ears, I hear no one. The peacekeepers won't check this particular section of the neighborhood for at least another two hours. Maybe three. And everyone else is asleep.

Just a worthless drug addict that no one will miss. Hardly worth the effort it took to end him.

I lean down and place my head against his still-warm chest, the sickly ribs pressing against my cheekbone as I search for the absent heart beat. The bloody cavern is hollow and empty. He's dead.

_ Look at you, so self-satisfied. Murdering for fun like the monster you are._

_ I bet you can get another kill in before the night is through. C'mon. I _dare _you._

_ Everything means something in the end, and one day you'll get swallowed up by all the terrible acts you've committed._

Dead dead dead.

I tilt his head to the side, widening the smile. Name. He had to have a name. I want to carve it into his skin, label him, but I don't know what it is. I instead settle for 'Twenty-One'. Twenty-one voices in my head, all with equally important things to say.

_ They're coming for you._

Pinning my ears back, I hear the distant echo of drunken laughter, probably a couple of fools returning home after a night of heavy drinking. I won't have time to carve the name or hide the body or wash my hands in the stream. Taking the knife, I weave my way through the trees as quietly as possible, edging along the unmarked border that runs between the low-lit slums and the encroaching forest. The trees and shrubs reach out, as if to drag the crumbling brick buildings into the wall of untamed darkness.

Rarely do I have the chance to escape my house without alerting mother or father, or Cal or Inachis or Pieris. Tonight is a gift, really. A coalescence of circumstance.

I slip between two of the dilapidated tenant buildings, wondering just how many souls are packed inside and how easy it would be to simply tear down their fragile spider web lives. It's enticing.

Not today, though. No no no, today is already bleeding red and I really shouldn't push my luck.

Trying to clean the blade as best I can, I wipe the knife against the gritty alley ground before delicately placing it in one of the half-full dumpsters. I take a dirty rag from a garbage pile and use it to cleanse my hands, though a good portion of the blood has already dried and refuses to flake off. No matter. Enough has been done.

_ They'll still find you. Your guilt is obvious._

I avoid the moth-infested cones of golden light cast by the streetlamps. My skin is numb and heavy from the cold, but I don't care. The shadows conceal my presence, though there are no cars, no peacekeepers, no pedestrians save a single homeless beggar rustling among a pile of shining black garbage bags. I am so very, very tempted. Her beating heart calls to me. I can't afford for someone to hear her screams, though, so I pass by without a second glance.

_ No doubt she has no idea what sort of fate nearly befell her. _

_ Ignorant woman. _

Block after block, the tenant buildings quickly give way to higher-income apartments, then individual houses. Along the eastern horizon, the sickly silver light of predawn wedges itself between the earth and the sky. I'll need to get home soon, before mother awakens to find me missing.

The more suburban my surrounding become, the greater the danger the streetlamps pose. It becomes a dance, almost, dodging the incriminating light and clinging to the lovely darkness.

My own house looms against the lightening sky. I scurry down the street, soundlessly unlock the gate, and creep across the side yard. When I step up onto the back porch, I make sure to avoid the squeaky third step. None of the interior lights are on. Everyone is still asleep.

They do not know.

* * *

**Trance Berrill, Victor of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games**

* * *

I adjust the buttons on my blue collared shirt with almost-trembling hands. My reflection stares back at me with tired eyes and a jaw tensed with apprehension, teeth pressed against one another because I have no control over my life or the lives of the two children who will inevitably volunteer like I so foolishly did seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years. Only one successful mentorship. Not even a kid from my own district, though the child of a friend. Child of my savior, more like.

She leans against my back and wraps her arms around my waist. "Trance," she murmurs, her breath soft and warm against my shoulder. On her left hand, a single golden band glimmers dully in the early pre-sun light. "How are you holding up?"

I place my hand over hers. "Another year, another dead tribute."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth."

She doesn't respond because she knows I'm right. Even if my own mentorship ends up being a success, the other tribute from our district will have to die, along with twenty-six others.

Loss is inevitable.

"Aston is old enough to be taken," Mirror says, a thread of long-suffering fear woven into her words. That fear is the price she has to pay for loving me. Her terror is my guilt.

I sigh and close his eyes, because I know, hope, _pray_ that my son won't be reaped. District One always has volunteers. Unless Hyperion and Coin want a specific kid's name pulled from the bowl.

It's what happened last year.

"He'll be okay," I whisper, wishing I could believe my own lie. "Even if he's picked, someone will volunteer."

With a sigh that carries the weight of the entire world, she replies, "I hope you're right."

The train is running late.

I lean against the wall of names and glance at my watch. Exactly three hours until two more families are ruined forever.

A pillar of silver cigarette smoke rises into the crisp morning air, exhaled slowly from the lungs of last year's victor.

Lourde Deplane is staring at the names on the brick wall, all one hundred and fifty of them, the beautiful script recorded in black spray paint by some rebellious kid who wanted to commemorate every fallen tribute from District One. Even the sole victor killed in the purge.

His hollow eyes linger on the newest name, the only one from last year.

His own district partner.

"It's strange," he says, voice strong and smooth and low, the kind that drives District Zero women crazy. "I'm pretty sure they wrote the names here out of respect." He drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it with the heel of his shoe. "But I fucking hate this wall."

Lourde is nineteen but this morning he looks ancient. His skin is ashen gray, the color of a sick, dying soul trapped in a healthy, stubborn body. He stares up at the pre-sunrise sky, the red and pink and gold horizon reflected in his upturned eyes, and he lets out a mirthless laugh. "I guess it isn't for me, though. It's for her."

I cross my arms, pressing my tongue against my teeth. I don't want to remember last year's failed mentorship. She was the eleventh tribute I failed to bring home.

For the Eightieth Hunger Games, the Coalition of Academies deemed Lourde the most fit male to represent District One, and as was custom, he volunteered without batting an eye. Exactly thirty-eight seconds later, a girl named Katrina Bourne was reaped, and in a conspicuously shocking turn of events, for the first time in forty-eight years, no one volunteered to take her place.

Lourde loved her. She loved him. And Lourde had unintentionally ensured their absolute destruction.

The moment he realized that only one of them could survive, he was prepared to die for her. And he almost did. Twice.

But the sharpshooter from District Four had other plans, and Katrina died choking on her own blood. Much to the excitement of the audience in District Zero, ever-strong, ever-quiet, ever-robotic Lourde broke down and sobbed, cradling his district partner until long after her cannon sounded.

Only months later would I learn that Hyperion had orchestrated Katrina's reaping, because apparently doomed love and high ratings were more valuable than the life of a girl and the sanity of a boy.

Out of all the Games I've mentored for, I hate the Eightieth the most.

The departure and arrival record that hangs above the platform lets out three low beeps, indicating that the next train is due to arrive any minute.

"About time," Lourde drawls. "And here I was, thinking that we might have to miss the reaping ceremony."

I push off of the wall and stand alongside my fellow mentor. Even though I have faith in Lourde, perhaps more than I should, this year I'm prepared to take on the mentorship of both tributes from District One. The first year is almost always the hardest, and Lourde can barely keep himself together, let alone ensure the survival of another human being.

"I'm so glad that the train is here." The nineteen-year-old throws his arms wide. "In fact, I'm abso-fucking-lutely _ecstatic_."

These next few weeks are going to be more difficult than I'd like to admit.

* * *

**Etiliasè Castriel, District Zero Female**

* * *

"Elbows off the table, Etiliasè."

I freeze with the toast against my lips. Slowly, I slide my arms off of the table in compliance with his demand. "Sorry. I guess I'm just nervous. I didn't meant to forget my manners."

He lifts his gaze from the newspaper and stares at me with a carefully measured amount of pseudo-disappointment. "And why ever would you be nervous, Etiliasè?"

Oh, right. I forgot. Winslake Castriel's daughter isn't even supposed to know what nervousness is, let alone lower herself to the point of actually experiencing such a 'bad' and 'shameful' emotion.

"It's reaping day," I say, placing my toast back on the silver plate. "I think everyone's at least a little afraid of getting picked."

He scoffs, as if I'm an utter fool and he's simply displaying his exceptional virtue by taking time out of his busy day to correct my improper mindset. "You and I are both fully aware that you won't be chosen. My associates would never allow it." Offering me what's supposed to be a smile, he adds, "Really, dear. Don't be so thick."

Of course. Silly me.

Lowering my gaze, I ask, "May I please be excused?"

He eyes me with suspicion, before nodding with approval. "Of course. Remember to place your dishes in the sink this time. I'm tired of listening to the maids' complaints."

I smile as brightly as I can manage. "Yes, father."

Setting the plate next to the sink, I turn to him, my mouth opening and closing with unspoken words. A few seconds pass before I finally rack up the confidence to say, "The reaping starts in half an hour. I should probably get going now if I want to be on time."

His expression contorts into one of pity. "There's really no point for you to attend."

"It's legally required for all citizens between the ages of twelve and eighteen, father."

Lifting his eyebrows and shaking his head, he turns his attention back to the newspaper with a put-upon sigh. "If you insist."

I give him a slight bow. "I'll be home later."

He dismissively raises his hand. "Sure, sure. Return before the Stillwater family arrives, though. I'd rather not have to explain your potential absence to our guests."

"Yes, father."

I cautiously tiptoe through the main hallway, careful not to scuff my shoes against the marble floor, for fear of father's wrath. He hates it when I don't properly pick up my feet. He hates a lot of things, really.

One of the attendant Avoxes holds the front door open for me, for which I give him a grateful nod. Out in the driveway, the sleek black car sits underneath the sycamore tree, shadows dancing across the ridiculously reflective surface. I'm sure the chauffer would be happy to drive me to my destination, but the reapings aren't that far away, and I'm perfectly capable of walking. It's what most other people do, anyways.

I only have to travel a few blocks. The gathering site is swamped by children and parents alike. A number of mothers and a few fathers wipe tears from their faces, likely preparing for the worst. We've only had to sacrifice tributes to the Hunger Games for the past five years, but in that time, we've lost nine children. Our sole victor, Cyprion Serrice, barely a year older than me, sits at the left edge of the stage. Despite his calm outward image, I'm fairly certain that he's having an internal meltdown. When both of the tributes from Zero failed to make it into the final ten last year, no one saw Cyprion for three whole months afterward.

The registrar takes a sample of my blood, confirms my identity, and shoos me along to my place in the seventeen-year-olds section. I'm one of the last kids to arrive.

As the few remaining teenagers file themselves into the crowd, a video starts playing up on stage. It depicts the horrors of war and reminds us of how we subjugated the other districts, and how our inclusion in the Hunger Games is a just punishment for our sins. It's mostly propaganda, but there's a bit of truth to it. What we did to the rest of Panem was wrong.

"Welcome," the escort says once the video is over. Though she's obviously trying to appear happy and enthusiastic, she has a somber aura about her that can't quite be concealed. After all, she could end up condemning her own child to death within the next few minutes. "My name is Antonia Boulevaire, and I am honored to represent District Zero." She lets out a small, disheartened sigh, even though she keeps smiling. "It is time once again to send one of our finest sons and one of our finest daughters to fight in the arena. Let's start with the male."

She dips her three-inch nails into the bowl and withdraws a tiny slip of paper. Holding it up close to her golden eyes, she cries, "Solaris Noven!"

A girl in front of me lets out a gut-wrenching scream as the male crowd parts to reveal a rather nauseous-looking eighteen-year-old. He sways slightly, but manages to compose himself before too much time passes. As he ascends the steps and takes his place up on stage, he shakes the escort's hand and waves at a select few people in the audience. His smile almost looks completely genuine.

"And on to the females," the escort says.

My thoughts bitterly return to my father, and how his 'associates' have ensured that my name won't be drawn. The fact that Winslake Castriel is my father shouldn't determine whether I'm treated any better or any worse than the rest of the girls in District Zero. I'm tired of being known as his daughter rather than being known as myself.

"Your female representative this year shall be: Hestia Nuremberg!"

This is my chance to prove my father wrong, to show him that he isn't the master of the universe, that he can't control everything. Not even his own daughter.

"I volunteer!" I cry, hardly believing the words as they slip out of my mouth. I'm crazy, aren't I? Every single head turns to look at me as I run to the stage. Am I really doing this?

It appears as if the escort has been struck by lightening. "Oh?" She shakes her head in amazement. "Oh, uh, your name, sweetheart?"

"Etiliasè Castriel," I answer. Knowing that the nickname will anger my father, I add, "But you can call me Etsy."

Cyprion glares at me with a strange combination of surprise, confusion, and hope. No tribute from District Zero has ever volunteered before. I just made history, and all eyes are on me.

Father cannot take this moment away.

* * *

**Steven Krane, District Three Male**

* * *

The peacekeeper doesn't speak as he leads me down the hallway. We pass a huge floor-to-ceiling window with the red velvet curtains drawn back, letting a shaft of sunlight fall through the hazy air. Judging by the grime and dust, I don't think anyone's been here since last year's reaping.

He opens a door and digs his elbow into my back, forcing me into the room. "Your loved ones should be here shortly."

I watch him leave, still not entirely convinced that this is reality. Maybe it's just a terrible dream? I mean, what are the odds?

Not in my favor, apparently.

I dig my nails into my arm, using the pain to make sure that yes, I am here, and yes, I am bound for the Hunger Games. Sinking into the couch, I bury my face in my hands. This can't be happening.

"Steven!"

Two small arms wrap around me, and in spite of my situation, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

"Hey, Zachary."

The nine-year-old lets out a braying sob. "You can't leave!"

"I'm sorry, Zippy," I say, resting my chin on top of his head. "I have to."

His sister, Willma, lingers in the doorway, arms crossed against her chest and eyes downcast. She looks incredibly small.

Bradley squeezes past her, eyes red and lips pressed into the sort of frown that's meant to suppress tears. I stand, even with Zippy clinging to me, and clasp my hand with Bradley's. He pulls me into a hug and slaps my shoulder. In the eight years I've known him, I've never seen him this close to an emotional breakdown.

"It shouldn't be you, man," he says, stepping back and raking his hands through his hair. Blue eyes darting around the room, he can't seem to find the right words. "It… isn't _right_."

"If it wasn't me, it would be someone else." I unsuccessfully try to pry Zachary's arms from my waist. "Even then, it would still be wrong. It sucks no matter how you look at it." Cracking the biggest grin I can manage, I say, "But you aren't allowed to miss me while I'm gone. I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

My assurance seems to calm them, if only by a little bit. I can't be sure I'll see them again, though. That thought terrifies me.

"I'm holding you to that," Bradley says, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he can't bring himself to do it.

Willma crosses the room, and from her pocket she withdraws a tiny brooch. The central blue gem, no larger than a pea, glitters dully in the low light. Three miniature propeller blades reach out from the center, the silver surface full of nicks and dents, and there's a bit of black tarnish on the underside.

I stare at her in near-disbelief. "Is this what I think it is?"

She gives a single curt nod. "It is. And now it's your token. Be careful."

"They'll-" I pause and lower my voice, hoping that none of the peacekeepers are within earshot. "They'll confiscate it, though!"

Eyes widening, Bradley leans over and holds the small trinket in the palm of his hand. "You actually did it?"

"I promised I would, didn't I?" She averts her gaze and shifts uncomfortably on her feet. "I was going to use it if I got reaped. But I'm pretty sure you'll need it much more than I will."

I let out a low sigh, this time unable to manage another smile. "Thank you, Willma."

The peacekeeper reappears in the doorway. I snatch the token from Bradley's hand and stuff it in my pocket.

"Your five minutes are up," the man drones, gesturing for my friends to leave. Turning to me, he says, "Your parents are waiting outside. They'll be allowed to see you once these three leave."

Zachary only releases me when his sister demands it. "No!" the young boy cries. "Don't leave, Steven!"

Willma and Bradley both give me fearful glances as the peacekeeper ushers the three of them out of the room. I desperately want them to stay. But they disappear behind the mahogany door, leaving me all alone.

I clutch the brooch close to my chest. I can't take them into the arena with me, but this might help me survive.

I can only hope.

* * *

**Kyrie Lilitu, District Eleven Male**

* * *

Orchards pass by us at a blinding pace, rolling into a solid wall of green and brown. I lean my forehead against the window, watching the white cloud of condensation grow with every breath I exhale. I hate to acknowledge it, but I wish Kamal were here. Even Lovat, despite the fact he stole my lucky socks this morning. My brothers, for all their flaws, could still offer me a certain level of comfort that my current companions cannot.

"We're going to need a game plan," Zea says, drumming her fingers against the mahogany table. "Any suggestions?"

Seeder stares contemplatively at the mountains of ridiculously decadent train food, her eyes wandering across the croissants and mini-triangle sandwiches and powdered cookies. "Have either of you watched any of the previous Games in-depth?"

Zea shrugs. "Not really, no."

I simply shake my head. "Watching people kill each other isn't really my cup of tea."

Interlacing her wrinkled fingers and resting her hands on the polished wood, Seeder flares her nostrils and furrows her brow. "Well, there will be plenty of time to view the recaps later. In the meantime, you just need to take a deep breath and inventory your situation. We'll arrive at District Zero in about thirty minutes. Maybe you could use that time to get to know each other better?"

Much to my dismay, despite my own lack of interest in Seeder's suggestion, Zea takes her mentor seriously.

"Is there anything I should know about you, Kyrie?" she asks, offering me a bright grin.

I narrow my eyes. Sure, I'll play along. "For starters, I prefer the name 'Ky'. I'm a Capricorn, I like long, exhausting hikes through the countryside, I dream of one day traveling to see the ocean, I'm a terrible chef even though I love cooking food, and knitting is my favorite hobby." Turning to her with a sickly sweet smile, I add, "Oh, I also hate contrived conversations."

Smirking, Zea rests her cheek on her fist. "Are you allergic to serious answers, too?"

"All of those things are true, actually."

She lets out a breathy laugh. "In that case, thanks for sharing, Ky."

I incline my head. In keeping with common courtesy, I return the question. "And should I know anything about you?"

"I know a lot about plants." She bites down on her thumbnail, gaze fixed on the passing countryside. "And I'm brutally honest, so if I inadvertently offend you, I apologize in advance."

I lean back against the plush velvet seat. "The only thing that really offends me is stupidity, so you're in pretty good shape."

"Well, I'm glad you don't think I'm stupid." She sits up a little straighter in her chair, still not meeting my gaze. "The landscape looks so different out here. I've never traveled more than a few miles from my home." Shifting her attention to me, she asks, "What about you? What's the furthest you've traveled?"

She forgot to mention that she talks too much.

Before I have the chance to answer, my own mentor comes stumbling through the doorway, stinking of alcohol and glaring at the world with bleary eyes. Will fumbles between the tables, nearly knocking two platters of food to the carpeted ground, and practically melds into his seat. I honestly had no idea that he had an alcohol problem. He was always so proper and well-mannered back in District Eleven. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed by this revelation.

Seeder gives him a cutting frown. "So nice of you to join us."

Holding his bottle up in the air, he says, "You have to admit that I know how to make an entrance." He lets out a hiccup that rocks his entire frame. "Honestly, you should be happy that I'm here at all."

Seeder's shoulders drop with defeat. "Yes," she concedes, "we're happy you're here, Will. Do you have any suggestions to help our tributes?"

He stares me in the eye and with a straight face says, "Don't die." He immediately devolves into a fit of hysterics, as if he's the funniest man on the planet, and Seeder has to take his drink to prevent him from spilling. "Embrace the suck. The entire arena, fellow tributes included, will just try to grind you down. But you can't let that happen. You have to be strong. You have to be fierce. You have to be wild. You. Have. To. Be. _Untamable_."

Placing the confiscated bottle on the ground beside her, Seeder lets out a heavy sigh. "You aren't getting this back."

Good. Getting drunk on reaping day serves no purpose other than embarrassing himself. She probably should have cut him off earlier.

Will raises his fist in defiance. "Stop undermining my authority."

"You're doing a perfectly good job of that yourself." Crossing my legs, I add, "I don't really trust the advice of drunkards."

My mentor lets out a painfully grating laugh and simply sinks deeper into his seat. "If you live long enough, my dear little ignoramus, you will eventually discover that the drunkards are the smartest of the bunch. At least we can recognize the fact that the world is messed up beyond all repair. Might as well soften the sharp edge of truth with a bit of booze."

As chastisement, Seeder slaps him on the knee. "When did you get so negative?"

I close my eyes and do my best to block out the ensuing conversation. Will is just a weak fool. Yes, the world is messed up. But by allowing himself to give in to the fear and temptation of alcohol, he limits his own ability to navigate the issues at hand. It's a self-defeating and self-fulfilling philosophy.

I can't forget that the drunk has vital experience and knowledge to offer, though. Weak or not, he holds my greatest chance for survival.

* * *

**Atienne Oronoco, Female Citizen of District Zero**

* * *

Careful not to spill my glass of wine, I wedge myself between Lionel and Kristofferson and make myself as comfortable as possible on the red velvet cushions. They both have their faces glued to the holo-screen where Caesar Flickerman's face appears, his bright smile tinged with a shade of giddy excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he cries, "welcome to the Eighty-First Hunger Games! I am so very excited to be here, as I'm sure you are, as well. As you may know, the reapings in District Thirteen just wrapped up, and I can only image how excited you are to see this years' tributes. So, without further ado, let's begin with our very own District Zero!"

The cameras switch to a beautifully dressed woman as she draws a single slip of paper from the bowl. "Solaris Noven!"

My stomach drops. "He's such a great performer! He can't go into the arena!"

Kristofferson gives me an odd stare. "What are you talking about?"

"That kid," I say, gesturing to the screen, "is a true artist. He and a few other dancers performed at my mother's second wedding. He was phenomenal. Ugh. It just kills me that she drew his name. What a terrible start to the reapings!"

Marguerite shrugs. "Sorry, babe. That's the luck of the draw."

All five of us let out a collective gasp when a pink-haired, seventeen-year-old girl volunteers for District Zero. We've never had anyone volunteer before. Ever.

"Isn't that Hyperions goddaughter?" Brenden asks, jaw practically touching the floor.

Slowly nodding, I answer, "I think you're right. Why would she do that? It makes no sense!"

Either she is incredibly clever, or incredibly foolish. All things considered, the latter is more likely.

We have little time to recompose ourselves before District One appears on the screen. A powerfully built man storms up the aisle, most likely picked by the academy because no one else steps forward to challenge him. He ascends the stairs and introduces himself as Adonis Belmont, before flashing a winning smile to the cameras.

"He's cute," Lionel says, inclining his head with an impish grin.

The female volunteer is a lanky blonde by the name of Amelithe Arvantis. She marches onto the stage with an air of confidence that can only belong to a trained Career.

District Two's reaping goes much the same way, producing two volunteers who stoically identify themselves as Sebastian Flynn and Venera Toulley. The boy's name sounds familiar, but I can't quite remember why.

The boy from Three simply goes blank when the escort calls upon him to represent his district. He does eventually make it to the stage, but his movements are jerky and robotic. His district partner, on the other hand, forces a smile as she walks down the aisle, thought her lovely brown eyes betray her fear.

At first, it appears as if no one will volunteer for the male's position in District Four. Silence rings for a full five seconds as the unlucky boy shuffles out of the crowd, until a smiling seventeen-year-old offers himself up, his expression indicating that he didn't expect this opportunity to arise. The tiny female volunteer, on the other hand, giddily separates herself from the sea of girls before the escort even has a chance to read the reaped victim's name.

Stark Everglade of District Five manages to keep a straight face when his name is called, but I can tell that he's dying on the inside. Vespera Zona simply breaks down into broken sobs, wiping away her tears and muttering to herself as she steps up onto the stage.

I rise from my seat with the express intent of refilling my glass. "If one of you could narrate, I'd much appreciate it."

As I enter the kitchen, Marguerite calls, "The guy from Six looks a little freaky. He smiled, but it's genuine. _Creepy_ genuine. The girl is looking around like she's lost. She's smiling, too, but she looks so afraid, poor girl." I rummage around in the ice bin, searching for my favorite brand. Did Lionel drink it all? "Aaaaand District Seven has a volunteer! He looks like a strong one. Jorah is a nice name, too. No, wait, two volunteers! They're really growing into their Career status, aren't they? Her name is Padoa. They all have such odd names. Like aliens or something."

Settling on a different brand, I pour myself another glass.

"We have a runner from Eight!" Lionel cries, his voice jumping two octaves. "I love it when they run! Run, Julian, run! Go go go go g- Aw, shit. They caught him."

I return to my seat and put my feet up on the table. "What did you expect? The peacekeepers always catch them."

The District Eight female, a young girl named Valorie, approaches the stage with a look of pure venom. When the escort greets her, she simply responds with a harsh glare. The pair from Eight don't seem very cheery this year.

Nine doesn't do much better. The male smirks, but he's obviously trembling, while the female seems lost in thought and takes forever to reach the stage. Neither of them look very strong.

Surprisingly, we get a volunteer from District Ten. That almost never happens. He only hesitates a moment before marching up to the escort and identifying himself as Sterling Loaker. The camera focuses on the boy who almost got reaped, nearly hysterical with relief. The female tribute, unfortunately, is not a volunteer. She immediately puts on a smile, though, taking confident strides up to the stage. Maybe District Ten will stand a chance.

The little boy from District Eleven responds with curses and skyward cries of anger, deliberately pushing everyone out of his way as violently as possible. Considering his fairly small stature, it's rather impressive. The girl, a pretty thing by the name of Zea Tillman, doesn't seem too afraid when the escort calls her name. She appears more hopeful than anything.

Twelve is rather boring. The boy, some kid named Nix, freezes up when he's chosen, but calmly proceeds to the stage, even though his chest is rising and falling with ragged breaths. Ionette, the girl, produces no noteworthy reaction. She simply walks to her spot with an unreadable face, barely acknowledging the escort or her district partner.

"Well, isn't she just too cool for school," Brenden mutters, his words full of unjustified spite. We all still have a lingering disdain for girls from District Twelve. After all, Katniss Everdeen is the reason why we're now a district, and thus also the reason why we're included in the Games.

The people from Thirteen are all so uptight and stony. Their male tribute ends up being some serious-looking kid named Rufous. I want to laugh at his funny name, but something in his expression keeps me silent. I feel bad for him. The girl goes rigid when her name is called, but she swiftly marches up the aisle all the same. I think she's trembling. I can't be sure, though.

The screen switches back to Caesar as he makes a number of unfounded conjectures about the tributes and their chances and sponsorship and everything else relevant to the start of the Game. I've never really been one for assumptions, and making any guesses about the tributes at this stage would be pure speculation. Careers, non-careers, inner districts, outer districts.

They all have a fair shot at victory.

* * *

**Valorie Hollin, District Eight Female**

* * *

Inside the preparation room, I sit on a cold table, the metal slowly leeching heat from my body. The sterile space reeks of lilacs and roses and some other froofy odor. I don't know where my stylist is, and frankly, I don't care. A few tears blur my vision, and I hastily wipe them away, disgusted by my own weakness.

Why did the escort have to draw my name?

Behind me, the door swings open to reveal a lavender-skinned, black-haired man. He looks like nothing more than a collection of toothpicks, shiny clothing dangling off of his bony limbs. Does he even eat?

"Hello, darling," he says, his words carrying a flowery lilt that's far more effeminate than the normal District Zero accent. "My name is Constantine." He circles around me and runs his fingers through my hair with a squeal of excitement. "Oh, this is just fabulous! Is this your natural color?"

I cast my eyes to the ground. "No," I say, a little sheepishly.

"Ugh." He drops his shoulders and places his hands on his hips. "You have to tell me your secret. I want my hair to be as beautiful as yours."

Shrugging, I offer him a smile that's mostly real. "My mom is a hairdresser. She has her ways."

"Really? Maybe I'll take a trip to District Eight and ask her myself." He snaps his fingers, and three other stylists hurry into the room, one flamboyant man and two stylish women. "Alright hun, it's time to get you cleaned up. Now, I know it's kind of awkward, but I need you to take your clothes off."

I balk at his request. Strip? In front of a stranger?

Seeing my shock, he quickly explains, "I already have an idea of what I want to do, but I need to see the whole canvas in order to make you into the most lovely piece of art that I possibly can."

One of the women inclines her head. "We're professionals, dear. No need to worry."

I don't want to do it, but I can't show them my fear and reluctance. Fear and reluctance are signs of weakness. And weak things don't deserve respect.

With hesitant hands, I do as I am told. My black dress and undergarments fall down around my ankles, and I use my feet to peel off my socks and shoes. The stylist and his preppers stare at my naked body for longer than I'd like, but I sense no scum or hunger in their gazes. They simply have a job to do.

Constantine pats the table. "Alright, sweetie. Lie down, please. We need to clean you up before we put on your costume."

Again, I comply with his orders.

Leaning down to inspect my leg hairs, one of the women says, "Are you naturally blonde?"

I nod.

"But blonde is such a pretty color!" she cries, grabbing my feet. "Why would you change it?"

Surprised by her passionate reaction, I lift my shoulders, searching for the right words. "I just like this color more. It feels more like me."

Pressing her lips together, she lightly touches her bright blue hair. "Well, I guess I'd be a hypocrite for disagreeing with your reasoning. But that doesn't change the fact that blonde is beautiful."

The unnamed male prepper lays an adhesive sheet across my left leg. I flinch, but his grip remains firm. "Just as a heads-up, this will probably hurt, Val."

_ Val_. I don't know whether I like that nickname.

He tears the sheet away in one concise movement, along with what feels like half of the skin on my leg. Hundreds of hairs - my hairs - stick to the tacky side of the sheet. The prepper repeats the same process over and over again, until my legs are red and raw all over. I bite down on my tongue, trying to keep my suffering a secret.

But the tears still leak down my face, involuntary and embarrassing. The preppers use soft words and kind phrases to assuage the pain, and I know they mean well but their coddling only makes it worse. I don't want their pity. I'd rather they didn't say anything.

The other woman, the shorter one, drags a portable sink underneath my hair. "I'll use the delicate cleanser. That way, your hair will retain all of its color. Sound good, Valorie?"

I nod. She's the only prepper who's called me by my real name. So far, I like her the most.

She pulls a shower head down from the ceiling and power washes my hair with scalding hot water. Digging her inch-long claws into my scalp, she scrapes and scratches until every follicle is coated with expensive-smelling lather.

"So," my stylist says, "this is your dress." I have to crane my neck in order to see him fully, whilst allowing the prepper to keep working on my hair. He holds up a shiny outfit, and at first I think it's made out of a reflective fabric, until I look closer and realize that it's made of thousands of needles. "It's meant to represent sewing." He rustles the dress, but it doesn't produce the expected chorus of tinkling metal. "Don't worry. They're safety needles, so they only look real. They're actually quite soft and flexible."

As the preppers bathe my limbs with lotion and coat my hair with conditioner, I force myself to say, "Looks nice, Constantine."

"Aw, I'm glad you like it!"

Staring up at the ceiling, I allow myself a small sigh. The costume won't make or break my chances at sponsorship, but it will enhance whatever image I project. My performance must be made of smiles and strength. Otherwise, I might as well kiss my life goodbye.

* * *

**Sebastian Flynn, District Two Male**

* * *

The black horse stamps its hoof against the ground and rears its head back with a loud snort. Its gray companion simply swishes its tail, ears twitching with boredom.

I grab onto the low bar at the front of the chariot and hoist myself up into the cab. The white granite armor, though hollowed out as much as possible without shattering the stone, still weighs heavily on my limbs. My stylist has no idea how uncomfortable this costume is. He should be fired for making me suffer so.

Venera steps up alongside me, wearing a feminized version of my armor. Her expression is unreadable. She didn't talk at all on the train, despite my numerous attempt to instigate a conversation, so I really have no idea what's going through her mind.

"Nervous?" I ask, straightening the golden laurels on my head.

She smiles sadly. "Just a little. I volunteered to be here, so I don't really have a right to be nervous."

I incline my head. "I suppose you have a point. But nervousness is a biological response, so you don't have much control over it. You can't force yourself to _not_ experience the anxiety associated with being paraded in front of tens of thousands of people. It's an unavoidable fact."

Narrowing her blue eyes into a sidelong glare, she asks, "If you already knew that I was nervous, then why did you ask?"

"Because it was the stereotypically polite thing to do." I lean against the side of the carriage and let out a sigh, though it quickly turns into a yawn. "And I wanted to see what you'd say."

Venera turns away, her face once again stony and emotionless. I remain silent, figuring that any further banter would only end up impeding our potential association.

In front of us, the District One tributes board their chariot. The female wears a tight-fitting black corset, studded with hundreds of precious stones and laced up with gilded ribbons, while a multi-layered skirt fully engulfs her legs in a parachute of white silk. Her blonde braid reaches down to the small of her back, strung up with threads of glittering diamonds and iridescent pearls. The male's outfit is styled similarly to his district partner, though his black vest and white pants are far less flamboyant. His arms are left bare, I assume to attract potential sponsors. An elaborate diamond choker wraps around the base of his neck, most likely included to balance out the lack of glittering in his outfit with the excess of glittering in the female's.

Why couldn't my stylist create something as elaborate and lightweight as the costumes worn by District One? The granite adds an extra forty pounds to my frame, and I'd rather not exhaust myself prior to even setting foot in the arena.

A low, three-toned horn sounds from the ceiling. Over the intercom, a voice says, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome this year's tributes!"

The first chariot lurches forward, and as the tributes move into the sunlight, the voice says, "From District Zero, we have Solaris Noven and Etiliasè Castriel!"

Venera and I move forward one slot as cheers erupt from the audience. Apparently they're already in love with the two kids from their own district. They do look like rather strong candidates, but not strong enough to overpower me. I'll keep them in mind as potential allies.

"And from District One, please welcome: Adonis Belmont and Amelithe Arvantis!"

As opposed to District Zero, the tributes from District One are a different story. They're both volunteers, presumably trained, and I'd rather not involve myself with such dangerous competition. The same goes for District Four. The only thing I'd get out of such an alliance would be a knife in the back.

Our horses halt at the edge of the shadow, stamping at the ground, before some invisible cue sets our chariot rolling out into the view of thousands of screaming men and women. I raise my hand to wave at them, but the weight of the armor prevents me from keeping my arms up for extended periods of time. Yet another reason to remove my stylist from his position. He couldn't successfully anticipate and eliminate the problems caused by this flawed costume design. Aesthetic appeal means nothing if it impedes the wearer.

Someone nearby lets out a wolf whistle, and Venera's cheeks flush red with embarrassment.

"Don't let their childishness ruin your composure," I say, keeping my eyes locked on the road ahead. "They aren't worth it."

She doesn't respond.

Our horses bring us to a halt at the right end of the road. Across the aisle, I catch sight of the tributes from Five, dressed in elaborate strips of metal that flash with dozens of simultaneous arcs of electricity. It seems that the power district's stylists found a winning design this year, though both of the tributes look extremely uncomfortable. Apparently comfort didn't rank high on the stylists' list of priorities this year.

Hyperion and Coin stand on the balcony above, overlooking the entire audience, us tributes especially.

"Welcome, tributes," Coin says, her steely eyes wandering across the gathering of doomed teenagers. "We salute your bravery and composure in the face of danger."

Beside her, Hyperion gives a bone-chilling smile. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

* * *

**Azure Henderstern, District Four Female**

* * *

Darius unlocks the door to the penthouse and ushers me inside. "Lapis and Finnick should be here shortly."

I run a hand through my hair, fingers catching on the crusty bits of hairspray, and hurry to the bathroom. Even though my stylist was kind enough to remove the ridiculously cumbersome chariot outfit, I'll still have to wrestle my way out of the blue latex underclothing. My mouth twists into a grimace when I catch sight of my own made-up reflection. I look like a clown. A very pretty clown.

"What did you think of the other districts?" I ask, twisting a number of fancy knobs to fill the bathtub with steaming, scented water.

In the other room, I hear my mentor rummage around in the refrigerator. "Eh. They were alright. You and Lapis were the best, but that's just standard District Four procedure."

I peel the stretchy jumpsuit off, stripping down to bare skin, and smile to myself. "Your impartiality is overwhelming."

"I only speak the truth."

Wrapping one of the towels around my midsection like some sort of dress, I step out into the hallway and tilt my head to the side. "I'm going to take a bath. Care to join me?"

Darius chokes on his drink. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he places the bottle on the countertop and stares at me with a combination of conflicted incredulity and sly amusement. "Wow. So forward." A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "As appealing as that sounds, there's a list of regulations about a mile long preventing me from even thinking about you in such a manner."

I roll my eyes. "You're no fun."

As he shakes his head, muttering something about disrespectful children, the lock on the front door clicks, and the rectangle of wood opens to reveal my district partner and his mentor.

When Finnick catches sight of me, he lifts an eyebrow and gives Darius a disapproving stare. "What are you doing?"

"Making responsible decisions!" Darius cries, grabbing his drink. "Now, If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a little chat with the Ice Queen from D-Thirteen. She still owes me twenty gold from last year's bet."

"She's more likely to rip your throat out than actually pay up."

"Well, maybe I just want to talk with her. Ever consider that?"

"Right," Finnick says, dragging the word out with a knowing tone. "'Talk'."

Darius brushes off the comment. "I'll be back later."

As soon as my mentor is gone, I ask, "Who's the 'Ice Queen'?"

Finnick raises his shoulders in a semi-shrug. "It's the nickname we've given to Azura Adele. You'd understand if you met her." Turning his attention to my attire, or lack thereof, he asks, "Are you _trying_ to get Darius in trouble?"

I dip my shoulder in mock-shyness. "Naw. I just wanted to have a little fun."

"I'd be more than happy to oblige," Lapis cuts in, his lips pulled back in a mischievous grin.

"Ew. No. You're, like, _twelve_."

Finnick lets out a low, staccato laugh. Lapis isn't nearly as amused. "I take offense at that comment. I don't know if we can be allies now. You've done irreparable damage to my ego."

"Oh, please." The huge tub is almost overflowing. I should probably get this bath going before I accidentally flood everything. "You love me."

Lapis flops down on the couch and sneers with feigned disgust. "Only because your looks just barely make up for your atrocious personality."

"At least you think I'm pretty. I take my compliments where I can get them." I shut the door, locking myself in temporary solitude. Steam rises from the rosemary-infused water, clouding the mirrors and filling the rather large bathroom with a thick, fancy-smelling fog. I drape the towel on one of the wall hooks and proceed to dip my foot into the water. The temperature rests on the border between too hot and just right. Sucking in a deep breath, I lower myself until the waterline meets my collarbone. A miniature tidal wave sloshes over the porcelain lip, splashing against the tiled floor below.

I feel a pang of momentary guilt, but the thought is dispelled when I remember that some Avox will probably clean up after me, anyways. It's their job. My messiness helps them remain useful.

Resting my head against the edge of the tub, I think of all the wonderful things my victory will bring. Money, fame, power. I'd meet a whole bunch of new people at fancy soirees. Maybe I'd even get to meet the Ice Queen, and determine whether or not her nickname is justified.

* * *

**My hatred for reapings is too overwhelming to put into flimsy little words. It's the soul-sucking repetition, I think. Kills my creativity. **

**So, there you have it. The first seven tributes. Just because one tribute's POV is slightly longer or slightly shorter than another's doesn't mean anything. Some tributes just have more to say than others.  
**

**I have a few questions, and I'd love to hear your opinions:**

Of this group, which tribute did you like the most? The least? (Or did you just love/hate everyone?)

Now that we've heard from Trance, which mentor do you want to hear from in the next chapter?

**I think that's everything for this chapter. **

**Merry Christmas! Happy Belated Hanukkah! Happy Kwanzaa! Happy Holidays! Enjoyable Secular Winter Festivities! Whatever you celebrate, I wish you gladness and joy during this lovely Holiday season. I'll probably update before 2014 rolls around, but if I don't, then Happy New Year, as well.**


	4. Too Young to Live

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Azura Adele, Victor of the Seventy-Seventh Hunger Games**

* * *

Darius's eyes drift shut as he rests his face on the counter. I'm sure the bartender won't be happy that he's leaving his oily face prints all over her ridiculously pristine work surface.

"You owe me twenty gold," he mumbles, twirling his empty glass in rings across the wooden coaster. "Lourde's still breathing."

I lean my chin against my interlaced fingers and narrow my eyes. "I believe that there are still fourteen days to go."

"Nuh-uh."

"The deal states 'a year to the day'. He won three-hundred and fifty-one days ago. In order to satisfy the terms of the agreement, we must wait two more weeks."

His groan is muffled by his sleeve. "You're so pedantic."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

The mixologist, far too peppy for one in the morning, pours me another shot of vodka and I give her a grateful nod. In one gulp, I down the entire glass of smooth, subtly medicinal liquid. Maybe I've already had one too many, but it's a lot better than anything I can get ahold of in Thirteen.

"How are you not on the floor?" Darius asks, lifting his head to face me with bleary eyes. "That's the fourth one you've had in an hour."

I hold up the shot glass, almost as a taunt. "This is just a warmup, Maverick. I've sacrificed my sobriety in exchange for the ability to tolerate your presence. You should feel privileged."

He rests his forehead on his arm. "Whatever. It's _your _liver."

"Perhaps I'm simply more adept at holding my alcohol than you are."

"Sure." His capacity for word formation is starting to falter. "And perhaps Lourde will kill himself by next Friday and you'll win the bet."

I lean back on the barstool and shrug. "It wouldn't even be the most interesting event of the month, either. How disappointing."

He gives me a cold, hard glare. "You're a bitch sometimes, you know that?"

"I'm not the one who turned an off-hand comment into a yearlong bet based around Lourde's mental health."

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come forth. Upon realizing that he has no witty retort, he simply mutters, "Fine. You win this round."

"Wow," I drawl. "Conceding an argument? You _must _be drunk."

He doesn't respond. I look over, only to discover that he's closed his eyes, most likely on the verge of unconsciousness. Idiot.

For a moment, I'm struck by the overwhelming normalcy of this situation. Sitting with an acquaintance, maybe even a friend, getting drunk at a bar while we try to avoid thinking about more pressing responsibilities. He can forget about his time in the arena, and I can pretend that I didn't kill eleven people.

I didn't want to. It's not like I found myself in that library and thought, _I'm going to make it my mission to kill just under half of these people before the week is up._

I simply did what I had to in order to survive. Books burn incredibly fast, and the process was accelerated by a sponsor gift of highly flammable diethyl ether. And all it took was one match, one tiny little stick, to birth the fire that would claim ten lives. The howling of the inferno drowned out their screams as I hid in the fountain, kept safe by the cold water. When I emerged, I simply had to kill the girl from Eight. She was the last of my opposition, covered in terrible burns and screeching in pain, half of her face consumed by the blaze that I created. I did that to her.

Look at me, so pathetic and full of self-loathing.

Why do I drink, if it only brings me sadness?

"Hey," the bartender says, dragging me out of my thoughts. "Bar closes in five minutes."

I nod in understanding. I place my hand on the back of Darius's neck to shake him awake, but the physical contact sends him reeling. He scrambles off of his seat with wide eyes, suddenly sober and ready to bolt. Yet again, I'm reminded that we're both broken people pretending to be normal, healthy, productive members of society.

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's Darius's vulnerability, but I place eighty gold on the counter, paying for both of our rounds. "Keep the change," I say, my voice involuntarily catching on the last syllable.

Darius and I head down the ornate, high-ceilinged hallway, our every movement watched by dozens of cameras and eagle-eyed guards. We couldn't escape even if we tried.

"Sorry," Darius eventually says, his gaze glued to the floor. "About back there, I mean. You just startled me, is all."

An uncomfortable silence stretching between us. I shouldn't have touched his neck, not after the girl from Six nearly choked him to death during his Game. It's a phobia of his, and I just didn't think about it. I know that I should be the one apologizing, but I say nothing.

We both file into the elevator. Unlike in the past, where the districts were assigned different floors according to their number, this year every district has been given an individual penthouse at or near the top of the hotel. The elevator ride takes forever, but at least the view is nice.

At the eighteenth floor, the doors open to reveal a deserted hallway.

Before Darius and I go our separate ways, I touch him lightly on the shoulder. "Darius."

He lifts an eyebrow. "What?"

I let my arm fall to my side as I exit the elevator. Turning to face him, I show weakness that I never would if I were sober. "I hope you win the bet."

* * *

**Sterling Loaker, District Ten Male**

* * *

Four hours after retiring to my room for the express purpose of getting a full night's sleep, I find myself staring at the ceiling, brain overflowing with restless thoughts.

In an ideal world, I wouldn't be here. I'd be at home with my parents, sleeping in my own bed, or maybe getting ready for field work tomorrow. But this isn't an ideal world. It never was.

I know that I won't be falling asleep anytime soon, so I slink out of my room and cross the penthouse as silently as I can, doing my best to not awaken the others.

Everything looks different at night. Excess light from the city sends eerie, elongated shadows across the living room, and I begin to wonder whether District Zero ever falls asleep. Back in District Ten, people have to get up early in the morning. Once the clock hits midnight, every house is dark. They have too much work to do in the morning to waste their time partying until sunrise.

I step out onto the balcony, suddenly greeted by all of the noises that the soundproof hotel walls block out. Seventeen stories below, cars honk at each other on the still-crowded streets, and the muffled, low thrumming of bass-heavy music drifts over from one of the other high rises. A number of people have amassed at the base of the hotel, apparently fighting each other simply to get a glimpse of us tributes. I narrow my eyes. Anyone who would willingly drag themselves out of bed at three in the morning simply to press their faces against hotel windows has to be at least a little crazy. Maybe a lot crazy.

The sliding glass door opens and shuts. I turn to see Fenby, her hair messed up in a blonde halo.

"Hey," she mutters, staring down at her feet.

I incline my head, before turning my attention back to the glowing skyline. "Trouble sleeping?"

Beside me, she leans against the railing. "Nah. You just aren't as quiet as you think you are."

I smirk. "Ah, well. Sorry."

She interlaces her fingers, and a strand hair falls in front of her eyes. We didn't have much time to talk on the train because I requested to speak with my mentor in private. I hope my decision didn't inadvertently offend her.

"Today has been kind of hectic," she eventually says, articulating each word with great care, "and I didn't get the chance to ask why you volunteered."

"I doubt you want to hear my sob story."

Fenby's gaze meets mine. "But I do." She jerks her head back towards the penthouse. "I'm guessing it's related to why you talked with Chase on the ride over." She lowers the pitch of her voice. "I like to know why people do what they do."

I bite my lower lip and push off of the railing. I'll have to become more comfortable with telling people, especially if I'm going to make it the main point of my interview.

Running my hands down my face, I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a pent-up sigh. "If you really must know, I have early-onset Huntington's disease." I look to her, trying to gauge her reaction, but I can't detect any outstanding emotions. "I volunteered in order to save myself. That's the short version."

"What's the long version?"

"I'm sure you'll hear it at least once over the next few days."

She looks me dead in the eye. "We're district partners, Sterling. We should be working together, not keeping secrets from each other that could jeopardize our performance in the arena."

I stare up at the sky, trying to compose myself. All but the brightest of stars are choked out by the overwhelming city lights. I hate telling this story. "About a year and a half ago, I began having problems with really minor tasks. I'd forget things that I'd learned only a few days before. Basic vocabulary would slip my mind. I started walking into things - my spatial reasoning was horrible. I began acting out. Things would irritate or anger me, things that really shouldn't have, and I didn't feel like me anymore.

"My parents started getting really worried. They finally decided to take me to District Three for testing after I forgot my own name for a solid day." I turn to her. "I honestly couldn't remember. It's like my name was locked inside of a vault, and my own brain refused to give me the combination." I stare down at my hands, not entirely sure that I want to continue with this train of thought. "Twenty-seven tests later, the doctors figured out that I'd inherited the disease from my father, but he hadn't started exhibiting symptoms. If it weren't for me, he might've never known."

Someone at the base of the hotel lets out an excited cry. I cross my arms and let out a sigh. "Gene therapy is the only way to permanently eradicate the disease, and the full regimen costs more than what my parents have earned in their combined lifetimes. The temporary cure is a lot less expensive, but it stops working after a few years because the patient's brain chemistry adjusts to the meds. Unfortunately, I'm at the point where I'm just starting to experience the symptoms again. It's not nearly as bad as it was before, but I know it'll get worse. So, if I win, I'll be able to afford the treatment for myself and my father. If I die, at least I'll avoid fifteen years of progressive physical and cognitive degeneration, which will eventually end in a pitiful, drawn-out death."

Raising my arms in an attempt to lighten the mood, I say, "And there you have it."

She simply nods, absorbing the information. "How long can you go without the meds before their effect starts wearing off?"

I yawn in an effort to keep up an air of nonchalance. "Three weeks."

A beat of silence passes between us, before Fenby squares her shoulders and holds out her hand. "Allies?"

Slightly taken aback by her forwardness, I ask, "Are you sure?"

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't ask."

Hesitantly, I return the handshake. As long as she knows what she's doing, I'm keen on the idea. "In that case, yeah. Allies."

* * *

**Training Day One**

* * *

**Lapis Maccolade, District Four Male  
**

* * *

Azure won't stop messing with the bottom of her shirt. There's a nervous edge to her bright smile, and even though she won't admit it, I'm pretty sure that she's worried about what the other Careers will think of us.

I guess I'm a little nervous, too, but I can't let the others know. Careers are trained to sense fear. Our anxiety will be nothing more than blood in the water.

"So," I drawl, nudging my breakfast across the plate but not actually eating anything. Finnick glances up at me. "Any tips on unifying the Pack?"

My mentor shrugs. "Don't be afraid to ally with the others. But don't feel compelled to do so, either. Some tributes, especially Carers, are more trouble than they're worth." He turns to Darius. "What do you think?"

Azure's mentor groans, rubbing his temples and hardly opening his eyes. "Why do your words have to be so loud?"

Finnick rolls his eyes and rises from the table. "It wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't gotten drunk at one O'clock in the morning." Flashing a rare smile, he wraps his arm around Darius's shoulder and lowers his voice. "I can cover for you if you want to go back to bed."

Blinking slowly, Darius says, "That would be great."

"Yeah," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I'm sure the Ice Queen would just love to know that you had to take a timeout to deal with your monster hangover."

Darius gives me a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "You wouldn't dare."

"Alright, children, that's enough." Finnick grabs my arm and drags me to my feet. "It's time for you and Azure to meet the other tributes, anyways. The training floor opens in ten minutes."

When Azure and I arrive at the arched entryway, we're greeted by the Careers from District One. Apparently District Two and District Seven have yet to drag their asses out of bed.

"Hello," Amelithe says, immediately approaching me with an outstretched hand. "Would you like to be a member of the Pack?"

High-strung bitch alert.

I return the handshake. "That's my intention."

"How many years did you train before volunteering?"

"Five."

"Are you more proficient in close-range combat or long-range combat?"

Narrowing my eyes, I answer, "Close-range."

Amelithe nods in approval, as if she has the authority to judge me. She switches her attention to Azure, and Adonis stands off to the side, holding his hand over his mouth in an obvious attempt to suppress a smile. He looks at me, and I can tell that he finds his district partner's display of leadership amusing. Apparently this little game of twenty questions wasn't his idea.

Maybe she's on to something, though. Fake it 'til you make it. If she acts like the leader for long enough, there's a higher chance we'll accept her governance once the real fun begins. Unless she does something to piss us all off, which isn't entirely unbelievable, judging by her current behavior. Establishing herself as an interrogator isn't the best first impression to make.

The four of us are effectively blocking the entrance to the training room, so I step aside to let a few outer-district tributes pass by. They're doing everything they can to avoid making eye-contact with us.

Good. Let them be afraid.

The pair from Seven eventually show up, apologizing for their tardiness but offering no explanation. Amelithe doesn't spare them her questioning, of course, but I have to admit that it's convenient to get a little background information from them upfront.

Jorah is fairly quiet, sticking to short answers. Apparently he started training even before Seven became a Career district five years ago. Nice to see we have ourselves a rebel.

Padoa, on the other hand, is about as different from her district partner as humanly possible. She gives long, impassioned responses, placing a lot of emphasis on how excited she is to be a part of the Pack and how honored she is to ally with us. Sure, she's laying it on a little thick, but her pleasantness more than makes up for her sycophancy. It's not like I'm going to stop her from stroking my ego.

But when Amelithe asks her how much training she's had, Padoa hesitantly answers with, "Six months."

I arch an eyebrow, and Adonis crosses his arms in disapproval.

We don't have a chance to voice our concerns, though, because District Two chooses this exact moment to make an appearance.

"About time," I say, offering them both a smile. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost."

The guy, I think his name is Sebastian, glares at me like I've done something wrong. The girl, whose name I don't know, remains silent, simply observing our interaction.

Amelithe offers her hand, but neither of them accept the handshake. "Would you like to be a part of the Pack?"

Sebastian's mouth twitches with a faint sneer. "Actually, I'm here to inform you that I have no intention of joining the 'Pack'." Gesturing to the girl, he says, "And neither does Venera."

"Oh?" Amelithe cocks her head to the side, obviously posturing. "Why can't Venera tell me herself?"

"Because I already told you." Sebastian turns away, and Venera follows. Over his shoulder, he says, "Good luck with your little tea party. You're probably going to need it."

I heave an annoyed sigh. "Well, aren't they pleasant?"

Azure shakes her head. "I think it's better that they're out. They'd probably end up causing all sorts of trouble."

Even though Amelithe seems to agree, her expression conveys cheerless irritation. "Yes, you're probably right." Averting her gaze to the rest of the room, she says, "Anyways, I think that some practice will do us all good. But avoid District Two at all cost." She narrows her eyes as a strong undertone of malice enters her voice. "They've made their choice."

* * *

**Stark Everglade, District Five Male  
**

* * *

The pair from District Eleven linger at the plant identification station for quite a while, the girl trying to impart as much of her knowledge to her young district partner as possible. The young boy seems intelligent, absorbing a respectably large deal of information in a comparatively short period of time. I'll remember to watch out for them in the arena.

Returning my attention to the circuit in front of me, I rearrange the wires to transfer a portion of the battery's charge to the capacitor's electric field. I then remove the wires and cautiously connect an insulated flash bulb to the cathode and the anode of the capacitor, careful not to look at the bulb itself. The electrical discharge is immediate, and very bright. Good. The circuit works.

As I rearrange the circuit into another working model, I notice the girl from Six edging closer and closer to me. Her district partner is eighty different kinds of messed-up, so she must be looking for other potential allies. And by the looks of it, she's considering me.

Without asking my permission, she sits down at the opposite end of the bench. Our eyes meet, and even though she smiles, I'm not inclined to return the gesture. I recognize the attitude behind her apparent friendliness. She thinks that, simply because I'm quiet, I need someone to offer me their companionship. I've seen the same thing too many times back in Five. None of them seem to realize that my silence hardly indicates a desire on my part to disassociate myself from the situation at hand.

"What are you doing?" she asks, staring down at the circuit.

"Applying my electrical knowledge to make sure I still know what I'm doing." I glance up at the rest of the training floor. "But mostly, I'm observing."

She bobs her head in understanding. "That's interesting."

I'd rather she hadn't chosen me as her charity case. "Yeah."

She waits a moment, expecting me to say more, but when she realizes that I have no intention of continuing the conversation she asks, "So, where's your district partner?"

"Vespera?" I shake my head and focus on the capacitor. "Somewhere other than reality, I'm sure."

I can almost feel Six's disapproval from here. "Why do you say that?"

"If you spent more than a minute with her, you'd understand."

"Oh." Her smile falters, but only for a moment. "I never got your name, by the way. I'm Rion."

I glance up and, in spite of myself, offer her a smirk. "Stark."

"Well, Stark, would you mind showing me how to do... whatever it is you're doing?"

Might as well. I remove the insulated clamps and hold the battery up to show her. "This is the power supply. An electrolyte paste of ammonium chloride and manganese dioxide allows the electrons, commonly referred to as charges, to flow through the battery from the zinc anode to the carbon cathode. This process-"

She shakes her head and lets out a sheepish laugh. "Can you explain it in English?"

I pause, thinking of the simplest terms I can use without sacrificing definitional accuracy. "The chemical process in the battery pushes charges through the circuit. This forces electrons into the capacitor, where the charge is stored between the magnetic field between two metal plates. When the capacitor is completely charged, I can use it as a quick-discharge power supply."

"Why don't you just use a battery?"

"Because batteries are designed to let out a certain current over an extended period of time. Capacitors, on the other hand, can release their entire charge in a fraction of a second. Therefore, they are easier to weaponize." Standing from the table, I slide the circuit to her. "You can experiment with it if you want. I need to become more familiar with the other weapons."

Rion springs up alongside me. "Stark, wait." She waits barely a second before asking, "Do you want to be allies?"

I stare at her for a few moments, simply considering the possibility. She seems sane enough, at least more so than my district partner. And I'd rather not go into the arena alone. "'The whole is more than the sum of its parts', I suppose."

"What?"

"It's something a wise man once said. In essence, we'd be stronger together than we'd be alone. So, my answer is yes."

Her face lights up. "Great! Can I work on the weaponry with you, then?"

I gesture to the weapons rack. "After you."

* * *

**Nix Sootclaw, District Twelve Male  
**

* * *

Who took all the croutons?

It's like someone played hide and seek with all of the baked bread squares and won every single time. I need five croutons. There aren't five. This is completely unacceptable.

"Are you okay?"

I look up to see the girl from Ten staring at me from across the buffet table. She has a smile on her face, but I can't tell whether or not it's genuine. Hesitantly, I answer, "There aren't enough croutons in the salad."

She scrunches her face up in amused confusion. "Well, just eat it without the croutons, then."

"I need five. Otherwise, no salad."

Holding her plate out to me, she says, "Well, if that's the case, then here. You can have mine."

I want to take her up on the offer, but I know I shouldn't. She already took them, and it would be mean of me to steal hers. I'll just go without salad tonight, and get here earlier tomorrow night, before the crouton thief ruins everything again.

"No, thank you," I say, smiling. "I appreciate the offer, though."

Before she has time to respond, I hurry across the dining hall, heading for Ionette and her allies from District Thirteen. My district partner hasn't spoken to me at all, not even on the train or during the chariot rides, but I figure that allying with her is worth a shot. As I approach her table, though, she shoots me a venomous glare, despite the fact that both the male and female from District Thirteen greet me with bright smiles.

Placing my plate on the table and smoothing out the wrinkles in the tablecloth, I ask, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

The girl from Thirteen opens her mouth to answer, but Ionette immediately cuts her off. "No. Sorry, but we don't want to deal with your ilk."

Her words sting, but I'm more shocked than hurt. "Excuse me?"

"You aren't worth the effort," she says, turning her back to me, effectively ending the conversation.

The girl from Thirteen gives me a sad stare, but remains silent. The boy simply looks down at his plate, obviously trying to avoid acknowledging my presence now that he knows what Ionette thinks of me. It seems that even if they are interested in establishing an alliance, they value Ionette's input too much to consider me at all.

Still confused by my district partner's outright rejection, I skulk away to one of the unoccupied tables. Why would she refer to me as ilk? What did I do to anger her? We've barely even spoken to each other, but judging by her attitude, she probably prefers that we hadn't spoken at all. At this point, I kind of wish we hadn't, either.

Was it something I did? Something I said? Maybe if I'd approached her differently, she would have let me sit with them. I just want to know what I did wrong.

Seating myself at the back table, I pull the white tablecloth until it's completely smooth and even on all sides. I steal an extra fork, knife, and spoon from another placemat, and set them on the other side of my plate. I tap each of the six utensils seven, eight, nine times, until it feels right and I know for sure that the symmetry is perfect.

After I remove all of the dust from my plate and my utensils, I pick up my fork and set to work on the mashed potatoes, which have been carefully segregated from the peas and the three slices of steak.

Everything looks nice and clean and orderly.

The girl from Ten spots me eating alone, and chooses to pick up her plate and seat herself right across from me. Her smile is big and this time I'm pretty sure it's authentic, but also a little apprehensive. Why would she be afraid around me? Did I do something else wrong?

"Your name is Nix," she asks, not as confident as she was before. "Right?"

I nod. "Sorry, I don't know yours."

"Fenby. Fenby Frost." She looks at my plate. "That's a lot of forks and knives."

Shrugging, I place my fork down. "I just like everything to be even."

She inclines her head with acceptance. "That's understandable." Straightening her back, she folds her hands in front of her and places her intertwined fingers on the table. "I saw you speaking with your district partner. Were you going to ally with her?"

"_Were_ being the operative word. I wanted to, but she doesn't like me for some reason. I really have no idea what I did to make her hate me, but she does, either way."

Fenby leans back, her eyes never leaving me. "Well, Nix, do you want to join me and Sterling?"

I narrow my gaze. "What's your angle?" I've seen her and her district partner during training. I don't think they need anyone else. "Don't get me wrong, I'd like to join you. But… why me?"

"Because we can use all the people we can get. We have to band together if we're going to stand a chance against the Careers." She holds her hands out, almost in placation. "So, what do you say?"

I stare down at my dinner, before replying with a nod. "Yeah. That sounds like a good idea." It's not like I'll be getting any better offers anytime soon.

Fenby grins. "Excellent. Do you want to come over and eat with me and Sterling, then?"

Even though it'll mean cleaning and straightening-out another table, I agree. It was pure luck that she chose to ask me, so I might as well show my gratitude by getting acquainted with my new allies as soon as possible.

* * *

**Training Day Two**

* * *

**Lourde Delaplane, Victor of the Eightieth Hunger Games  
**

* * *

The glittering skyline stands as a silhouette against the predawn sky. A miserable gray light clings to everything, and a blanket of cold silence lies across the entire city. Even the paparazzi who camped out at the entrance of the hotel seem to have gone home, or at least learned how to shut up.

I bring the cigarette to my lips and inhale, tasting the microscopic ash as it burns the back of my throat. Holding the smoke in my lungs, I wait until the edges of my thoughts begin to blur before I drop my jaw and allow the breath to escape me in a slate-colored cloud. I close my eyes, savoring the temporary calm as it washes over me.

Permanent relief is only one step away, just beyond the balcony. Maybe I'd get to be with her. Even if I don't, at least I wouldn't have to put up with this joke of a life.

Cashmere, my mentor, managed to pick up all the pieces within the first two months of her victory. She managed to claw her way to happiness. She'd never think of ending it all.

Which is why I should be grateful for Trance's victory. Unlike Cashmere, he found himself in a very dark spot after his Game. He may not have been my mentor, but he knows where I'm trapped, and he's the reason why I haven't given up. But unlike me, he was strong enough to drag himself out of the pit.

Katrina keeps me here, bound by the memories of everything I'll never have again.

It's my fault. I volunteered, because I didn't consider the possibility that she'd end up in the arena, too. I killed us both.

Sometimes the knowledge is just too much to bear and I want to rip my own throat out.

Again, I fill my lungs with soothing poison and let my eyes drift shut. My limbs are heavy, but my mind is vibrating and awake and _fuck all I just want to stop_.

I drop the cigarette and crush it underfoot, strangling the embers until they're nothing more than white ash. It's a terrible habit, but I'm so far past caring that quitting is out of the question. The addiction is stronger than I am.

Running a hand across my face, I quietly open the sliding glass door and slip into the pristine living room. I hate how clean it is. I can't touch anything without feeling like I'm violating the sanctity of the white carpets and the polished table and the pressed curtains.

Adonis is sprawled across the couch, and as soon as I open the door, he turns his attention to me. Figures he'd be up early. The academy forces all attendees to adhere to a militaristically strict schedule, starting at five in the morning, every morning. To him, this probably qualifies as waking up late. "Smoking is gonna kill you, Lourde."

"That's the point."

He arches an eyebrow, but remains silent.

I sit down on the opposite couch. As his mentor, I'm supposed to help ensure his survival. But I honestly have no idea how to do that. It's not like there's some secret code I can give him. Every arena is different, from the design to the tributes, and I just… I don't know.

"So," I begin. He simply stares, like a snake. "What do you think of the other Careers?"

Adonis fixes his gaze on the ceiling. "I don't think we'll have any use for the idiots from District Two, and they specifically stated that they aren't interested in an alliance, so that decision has already been made. Sebastian can't see past his own desire for power, and Venera is nothing better than his lapdog. Lapis is irritating, but he's on my side, so it'll be worth tolerating him for the time being. Azure is bearable. Jorah seems intelligent, but I'm certain that the allegiance he feels towards his weakling of a district partner will cloud his judgment in the days to come, so I've written them both off, even though they're still technically part of the Pack. And you already know what I think of Amelithe."

I intertwine my fingers and lean back in my seat. "And what of the pecking order?"

He gives a mirthless smirk. "Azure and Lapis aren't incompetent, but they have no power. Padoa is a fawning gnat. Jorah doesn't speak much, but he's willing to play follow the leader. And Amelithe thinks she's in charge."

I furrow my brow. "'Thinks'?"

Adonis's mouth stretches into a full smile, but he does not respond. He's either uncommonly observant or completely delusional. Maybe a bit of both.

Lowering my eyes, I rest my cheek against my fist. Why am I even asking these questions? In all likelihood, he'll end up dead, anyways. "Where do you see yourself in all of this?"

He brings himself to a sitting position. "I like to think that I'm the overseer." As he speaks, Amelithe comes skulking out of her room, holding her hand over her mouth to suppress a yawn. I doubt she heard any of our conversation, but Adonis's face falls blank nevertheless. "But, who knows. Maybe I'm simply an ignorant fool who has no idea what he's doing."

"That's the likely scenario," Amelithe cuts in, rummaging through the cabinets for a glass to pour herself some orange juice.

Adonis doesn't break eye contact with me. He narrows his reptilian gaze, a ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Anything's possible, I suppose."

I hope Amelithe knows who she's dealing with.

* * *

**Barnabas Gringlam, District Nine Male  
**

* * *

Maize Chalmers is exactly eight-eight years old, and in the seventy-two years since her victory, she's gone from an addled sixteen-year-old who posed more of a danger to herself than all of the other tributes in the arena to an oblivious senior who can't tell the difference between an apple and a banana. Maysilee tells me that my mentor only really started losing her mind within the last five years. Either way, Maysilee will have to mentor two tributes this year, and every year until District Nine gets another victor.

If only Buckwheat Farro hadn't gone and been executed for involvement with the rebellion. Then maybe Alina and I would stand a better chance at victory.

"You two should probably move on to the training floor," Maysilee says, her eyes suspiciously glued to the Avox that's been assigned to take care of Maize. She spares us only a brief glance. "Start thinking about alliances. You'll need one if you want to win."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Even the Careers have people to watch their backs, Barnabas." She returns her gaze to the Avox. "Only fools go it alone."

"I'm not alone." I lightly elbow Alina's arm. "I have my district partner."

This statement draws Maysilee's immediate attention. She eyes me up and down and arches a questioning eyebrow at her tribute. Though she doesn't smile, Alina does give a brief nod.

For a moment, Maysilee's face remains completely blank, giving no indication to the thoughts running through her mind. A small grin eventually graces her lips, and she inclines her head in a display of approval. "That sounds like a great idea. But don't let it prevent you from looking for other allies."

I roll my eyes. "I wouldn't _dream_ of it."

Alina and I trek to the elevator and descend to the ground floor in a comfortable silence. We never explicitly agreed to be allies. It's one of those unspoken arrangements, I guess. Alina didn't protest and doesn't seem otherwise discontented with the situation, so I see no problem with it.

"What do you want to do first?" I ask, looking around the room. The Careers are scattered across a few different stations, though I'm pleased to find that none of them are currently using the fire station. Perfect.

Alina merely shrugs. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"How about fire?"

She thinks for a moment, before responding with a slow, deliberate nod. "I think that sounds fine."

"Excellent."

The trainer tries to give me some pointers on how to properly construct the wood into the most stable configuration, but I wave her off. As if I don't know enough about setting fires already.

I arrange a few of the larger logs into a conical formation and stuff a few pieces of kindling into the middle. Taking one of the smaller pieces of wood, I use a match to light the thinner end, and gently coax the flames to grow inside the house made of dead trees. I smile as the fire takes hold.

I like to watch things burn.

The silver-haired trainer eventually turns to behold my creation and lets out a strained gasp. "What are you doing?"

"Setting fires. What else would I be doing at the fire station?"

"That is a bonfire, you fool! Too big, too big!" She throws a heavy, presumably fire-retardant sheet over the flames, choking them out. Sending me an icy look of pure hatred, she waves me off. "Leave. I don't want you burning down the facility."

I frown, but I'm not particularly distressed. After all, I can always come back later. It's not like the trainer can ban me from the station.

"Maybe that wasn't the best idea," Alina says.

Leaving in search of another station, I shrug. "She never said that there was a limit to the size of the fire I could build. So really, it's her fault."

Alina follows with a put-upon sigh, but otherwise remains silent. My logic may paint me more as a victim than I really am, but it is essentially sound, and she knows it.

* * *

**Fenby Frost, District Ten Female  
**

* * *

The throwing knife hits dead center. I approach the target and rip the blade from the wall. That's my third bulls-eye in a row. No one here know where I hail from, and I'm sure that they don't know the extent of my training. I have no intention of telling them.

For good measure, I make sure to miss my next throw entirely, just in case any one else is watching. I need to look average, maybe even slightly above-average. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

What were the odds that I'd be reaped? Out of all the girls living in District Ten, for my name to be picked… and I'm not even one of them. I might as well have just stayed in District One, where a Career would have gladly volunteered in my place when my name was drawn. But Father and Mother chose to move to an outer district, where our wealth, though average in One, would elevate us to near-royalty in Ten.

Was the jump in class status worth my life, though?

I pluck the throwing knife from the outer ring of the target, and return it to the weapons rack.

Different alliances are scattered all around the training room. So far, I've only managed to recruit Nix and Sterling. I asked the pair from District Eleven if they wanted to join forces, but they respectfully declined. Stark quite obviously doesn't trust me, evident in his definite rejection of my invitation, and Rion, for whatever reason, chose to abide by his decision. The boy from Six is plain creepy, so I'm choosing to exercise discretion in his case and simply avoid approaching him at all. Nieve and her friends all seem uninterested in other allies. Ionette and the kids from Thirteen are all gathered in the back corner, speaking quietly as if part of some clandestine organization, so they're probably out, too.

That leaves Eight and Nine.

Barnabas and Alina sit together at the medical station, fretting over the proper way to administer aid to a burn victim. They look promising.

"Sterling!"

He looks away from the sparring match between the boy from Two and one of the trainers. Seeing that I want to speak with him, he jogs over to meet me. "Yeah?"

"What do you think about the pair from Eight and the pair from Nine?"

"They all seem competent. Why? Are you thinking about asking them to join?"

I nod, thankful that we're on the same page.

"Is Nix okay with it?"

"He said he was fine with any additions we decide to make."

Sterling holds out his arms. "Then go for it."

Tilting my head to the side with a smile, I say, "I'll ask Eight if you ask Nine."

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Fine by me."

Julian, the boy from Eight, sits at the weapons assembly table, working on some sort of makeshift spear. He's seated with his legs crossed, quietly whistling to himself as he ties a stone spearhead to the pole. His district partner, Valorie, sits on the other side of the table, sharpening the edges of a five-pronged piece of metal. Her back is rigid, and she's obviously invested in the task at hand.

They look up when I approach them.

"And what can I help you with?" Julian asks, setting his project down and offering me a sly smile.

I take a steadying breath. "I'd like to know if you're at all interested in allying with Sterling, Nix, and me."

Julian raises his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" Turning his attention to his district partner, he asks, "What do you think, Val?"

"I asked you not to call me that." She looks up and furrows her brow. "Sorry, but I'm not really interested."

"Yeah," Julian says, placing his hands behind his head. "I think I'm going to decline, too."

I frown. "Might I ask why?"

"Five people is a lot for one alliance. Too many. And if Valorie doesn't want to join, then I don't, either." His gaze flickers to me, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk. "Thanks for offering, though."

I nod, more to myself than anyone else. "I understand. Thank you for your time."

A little deflated, I see Sterling still speaking with the tributes from Nine. He's smiling, though. I hope his luck holds better than mine.

I approach him with a tentative grin, and when he sees me, he gestures to his company. "Fenby, I'd like you to meet the newest additions to our alliance: Barnabas and Alina."

Sighing with relief, I pull up a chair. "That's wonderful news."

"No luck with Eight?"

I shake my head. "Nope. They want to go it alone."

"That's fine." Sterling looks over his shoulder, scanning the rest of the room. "We just need to find Nix. Then we can get down to business."

* * *

**Adonis Belmont, District One Male  
**

* * *

Sebastian and Venera are nowhere to be found. I'm sure they're off plotting somewhere, convinced of their own magnificence and intelligence by choosing to break away from the main Pack. Their absence leaves no mark. If anything, it's better that they're gone. Sebastian's constant power-playing would have threatened the stability of our alliance.

I stare down at my empty plate, wondering just how much longer our little façade can last. Eventually it will come down to blood and broken bones, but for now, we're all smiles and laughter. It's morbid, really. Make friends, earn their trust, and then kill them when their back is turned.

Padoa makes some joke, and everyone cracks up. I allow myself a smirk, trying to conceal the utter loathing I feel towards the girl from Seven. Everyone seems to love her, and I can't bring myself to understand why. She's clingy, she's emotional, she craves acceptance, and she's constantly smiling, which means that at least some of the time, it's a fake gesture. Worst of all, though, she's weak. She hardly trained for half of a year before volunteering.

I suppose I don't hate her. I hate her weakness. But the two are mutually inclusive, and in order to keep our alliance strong, she needs to go. Preferably of her own free will.

"You okay?" Azure asks, nudging my shoulder.

I nod lightheartedly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking, is all."

"Uh oh," she jokes. "About what?"

I raise my shoulders with a shrug. "Bloodbath strategy, I guess."

Amelithe shifts her focus to me. "Oh? Do share, Adonis."

She thinks that, as our nominal leader, she needs to make sure that we all voice our opinions and thoughts. Whether it's to keep the alliance content or to keep us all in line, I really can't tell. Probably both. Amelithe isn't stupid.

Even though my ideal plan doesn't include Padoa, I speak as if it does. "I just think that we should have three people stake out the Cornucopia, while three others go out and take care of the tributes."

Narrowing her eyes, my district partner sighs as if I'm some maladroit who never learned basic battlefield tactics. "That limits our potential kill count, though. And we need to eliminate as many tributes as possible early on."

"If we prevent them from getting ahold of any weapons, then it will curb the damage that they can inflict on us. Therefore, we are likely to live longer."

I allow myself an inward smile as Amelithe struggles to find a diplomatic response. Either she admits that her plan is inferior, or she admits that she doesn't really care about the safety of those who follow her.

"It's not the most creative idea," I admit, "but oftentimes the best plans are the simplest ones. There are fewer things to go wrong."

"We'll take it under consideration," she says, even though I can tell she isn't interested in the idea. After all, her survival is more likely if some well-armed outer-district tributes manage to kill off the rest of the Careers. We are our own strongest competition. But admitting it out loud would set the rest of the Pack against her.

I love watching her squirm. Walking on all of these eggshells, she's likely to crack one sooner or later.

"Well, I think it's a bad idea," Padoa says. Of course she'd disagree with me. "Splitting up would make us all doubly vulnerable. Why not stick together as one big group? We'd be a juggernaut."

"Because," I say, actively keeping my voice amiable and respectful, "having too many people in one spot reduces our effectiveness as a whole. We can't just have six people focusing on one area, because then the other tributes will simply have to avoid us in order to survive. If we split up, we'll have half of our forces defending the Cornucopia, and the other half chasing after the tributes. If we cast a wider net, we'll catch more of them. And even then, I'm sure that most of the tributes don't want to deal with three Careers at once."

Jorah nods his head with obvious reluctance. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

Padoa's eyes grow wide. She isn't receiving the approval she needs. "What about you, Lapis?" she asks. "What do you think?"

The boy from Four simply shrugs. "I don't really care either way. As long as we get to have a bit of fun, any plan sounds good. But I do get what Adonis is saying, what with the net analogy. Wider nets mean more fish."

Padoa is getting desperate. "Azure?"

"I kind of like the idea of splitting up," Azure says, twisting a bit of hair around her finger. "It's not like we'll be split up forever. Plus, it ensures that we'll have control over the Cornucopia, and that's what I'm most concerned about." She looks at Amelithe. "That being said, I'd like to be one of the three who gets to go around chasing the tributes."

Padoa visibly deflates. "Oh." No one supports her, and now she feels ostracized. How convenient.

Amelithe gives me a toxic glare. This is supposed to be her party, not mine. I shouldn't be filling her little soldiers' heads with ideas that aren't hers.

I shrink away from her gaze, pretending that I didn't want or expect my idea to be so popular. After all, I wouldn't willingly disobey the Pack leader. It was a simply an accident.

And as long as Amelithe believes that, our little charade will stand a chance.

* * *

**And there you have it, the next seven tributes. The blog has been updated with the explicitly stated alliances.  
**

**For clarification, Azure is the girl from Four, and Azura is the mentor. I hope the coincidental similarity isn't tripping anyone up.  
**

From this group of tributes, who did you like/dislike the most?

What interaction did you find the most interesting?

Thoughts on the alliances (both confirmed and unconfirmed)?

**That's it, I think. Happy New Year, everyone!**


	5. Just Children

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Training Day Three**

* * *

**Evaine Berrach, District Thirteen Female**

* * *

"Excuse me," I say, approaching the training room guard. "It's eight O'clock. The training floor should be open for use."

He gives me a disapproving glare. "The door opens as soon as the clock hits eight, sweetheart."

"It already has. Thirteen seconds ago, actually."

Furrowing his brow, he checks his watch, and lets out a put-upon sigh when he realizes than I'm correct. He unlocks the huge mahogany doors and gestures to the training center with a disinterested frown. "It's all yours."

I nod brusquely, and lead Rufous and Ionette through the doorway. He doesn't seem to realize that this is the last day we tributes have to enhance our knowledge and skills. We need to make as most of our dwindling time as we possibly can.

"Where do you want to start?" I ask, looking back at my allies.

Ionette's gaze rests upon the weapons station. She sniffs. "I don't know. We've already spend a lot of time working with the weaponry. Maybe plant identification? None of us are proficient in that area."

I nod in agreement. "That's true. What about you, Rufous?"

"I'm fine with whatever you decide." As always, his compliance is appreciated.

"Very well."

We gather around the wide table, where the trainer greets us with an enthusiastic smile. "And what can I help you children with, hm?"

"Since this is the plant station," Ionette says, narrowing her eyes, "we were thinking something along the lines of plants."

"Well," he says, oblivious to the vitriol in my ally's voice, "you've come to the right place. What do you want to work on first? Uses, or identification?"

We all agree on identification.

The trainer pulls out three electronic tablets and hands one to each of us. "This is your primer course, and should take about thirty minutes. Once you can complete the final lesson with fewer than three mistakes, then we'll get to the fun stuff."

On the first page of the first lesson, I have to memorize the characteristics of three fairly common plants and trees: blue lupin, white oak, and honeysuckle. The second page requires me to match the pictures with their common names. As the lessons continue, the plants and trees become more difficult to differentiate, more obscure, and more suited to ocean or beach environments, a fact of which I take special note. I need all the information about the potential arena as I can gather.

As I match the plants in the twenty-fourth lesson, I incorrectly link one of the names, and a bright red X flashes across the picture.

_ Stupid. You should have known that, Evaine._

I purse my lips, unhappy with my failure, though the disappointment only motivates me to try harder.

The twenty-fifth and final lesson requires us to match every single one of the last seventy-two plants and trees, without any memorization beforehand. Cautiously, I link the pairs that I know for certain, which leaves me with five pairs that I know enough about to make educated guesses. But then I am left with two plants, neither of which I can identify. The names give no indication as to the color or shape of the leaves, or the general size of the organism.

Cautiously, I drag one of the names to what I hope is the corresponding picture.

Unfortunately, the red X appears, yet another reminder that guessing can only get me so far. Annoyed, I match the name to the other picture, and through process of elimination, correctly match the last name with the last picture.

"Only one wrong on the final lesson," the trainer says. "That's impressive."

"It still wasn't perfect," I mutter.

"It was good enough, though. That's all that matters."

Good enough won't cut it in the arena. Every other tribute is "good enough" in one way or another, and in order to win, I need to be the best.

And the best don't make mistakes.

* * *

**Cyprion Serrice, Victor of the Seventy-Ninth Hunger Games**

* * *

_ His smile is something other than human, a lying mask that hides a killer. Red, searing ravines cover the left side of my face, and I desperately want to get away, to flee, to go home and hide. Just make it stop._

_ He digs the blade a little deeper, and I scream a little louder._

_ My desperate, outstretched fingers brush against a potential weapon - a piece of broken rebar - and before he even notices the metal in my hand, he's clutching his bleeding ear and bruised temple. Without thinking, I bury the jagged metal in his neck. _

_ To my horror, he simply smiles, even as the blood trails down his face._

_ Leaning close, he whispers, "Wake up, Cyprion."_

My eyes fly open. Someone is touching my shoulder.

Reflexively, I grab the person's wrist and give a sharp twist, not harsh enough to break the joint, but enough to draw a pained gasp from the owner.

"Let go!"

I recognize the voice and immediately comply, apologetically averting my eyes. "I asked you not to touch me when I'm sleeping, Ezra. This is why."

The Games Oversight Committee assigned Ezra to act as my overseer, basically to ensure I don't do anything mind-bogglingly stupid as Zero's sole mentor. I'm charmed by their complete lack of faith in my abilities. Then again, I've done nothing to deserve their confidence. My meltdown last year merely cemented me as a hopeless moron in their eyes, though I prefer that they think of me as incompetent. It means less trouble for me and everyone I care about.

"You drank yourself to sleep." Ezra's tone conveys an infuriating combination of condescension and disapproval. She has no idea what I've gone through. She's in no place to judge. "Again."

I stare at the glass on the table, trying to focus my still-bleary gaze. "Actually, no. I fell asleep of my own accord." Which is surprising, considering it's the first time in months where my conscience and twisted memories didn't keep me awake until three in the morning.

My babysitter simply shakes her head and disappears into the kitchen, probably to cook herself a meal. She doesn't trust the hotel staff to provide her with decent service.

I stretch, preparing to rise from my seat, but Etsy rounds the corner and sits across the table, her hair drawn up in a bun and her face already done-up like every other girl in Zero. She rests her chin on her fists and gives me an earnest stare. "We didn't really get to finish last night's conversation, and I thought of another question. How can you know whether or not an ally is trustworthy? I mean, is there a certain look they have? The way they speak?"

"You can't know for certain. Some people are trustworthy, at least under normal circumstances. But these aren't normal circumstances. Could you truthfully say that you wouldn't betray an ally if it ensured your own survival?"

She looks down at the white tablecloth. "I… I don't know. I'd like to say 'yes'."

Solaris appears with a glass of orange juice in his hand, and leans against the doorway. He greets me with a nod, and offers Etsy a warm smile. "Good morning, everyone."

I raise my fingers in a lazy pseudo-wave.

"Wait," Etsy says, voice light and eyes bright, "I never asked: do you have any random tips? Like, what's the most important thing you want us to know?"

The breath catches in my throat. I twist the empty glass as it rests on the table, allowing the morning sunlight to refract through the transparent edges and carefully-measured angles. "It isn't murder if it's in self-defense. And you can't save everyone."

Solaris doesn't seem to appreciate the advice, but Etiliasè nods, the movement filled with a certain eagerness that only serves to reinforce my belief that she has no idea what she signed herself up for. She volunteered solely to get away from her father. That alone proves her ignorance.

But I can't give her any indication of my true thoughts. Her odds are technically just as good as Solaris's, and I need to treat her as such.

"Will we have to kill?" Solaris asks, his expression caught between a hopeful smile and an unbecoming grimace. "Or can it be avoided?"

Fuck, don't tell me _he's_ weak, too. I don't want to relive last year's Game. I can only lose so many tributes in the bloodbath before I permanently lose it.

"No matter what you do," I say, lacing my fingers and trying to keep the disapproval from leaching into my words, "there's a big chance that you'll end up with someone else's blood on your hands. Even if you miraculously manage to stay clean until the final two, you're still going to have to take down the last contender in order to go home. If you think the gamemakers will kill them for you, you probably aren't smart enough to get to the final two, anyways."

He narrows his eyes. "Oh. Well, sorry. I didn't mean to offend you with my dumb question."

I lean back in the chair. "I'd rather your get all of your idiocy out before you enter the arena."

A cold silence lingers between us until Etiliasè interrupts with, "What would you do if one of us won, anyways? As in, if you got a fellow mentor?"

It's a good question, I suppose, one I don't have an answer for.

"With either of you two," I deadpan, "I'd probably end up getting dragged into arguments about the merits of pacifism and the negative impact of violence upon today's youth." Drawing out an intentionally weary sigh, I add, "Of course, we won't know for sure until one of you gets back."

The clock on the wall clicks, and dings nine times before falling silent once more. Nine O'clock. Good morning, sunshine.

Solaris pushes off from the wall and taps Etsy on the arm. "Thank you for your insight, but it's getting pretty late. We should probably go down to the training floor."

I bob my head in acknowledgement. "See you after the gamemaker sessions." With an over-enthusiastic wink, I add, "Knock 'em dead."

* * *

**Vespera Zona, District Five Female**

* * *

"Look at these curtains, Vespera. They're made out of real velvet!" Cocoa runs her hand down the burgundy fabric. "They don't have curtains like these back home, do they?"

"Nope. They're too expensive."

Cocoa lets her arm drop, and she runs to catch up with me, her brown pigtails bobbing with the movement. "Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to live in District Zero. They have a lot of nice things that none of the other districts have."

I stare up at the intricately carved ceiling, tinted with the colors that pour in from the stained glass windows. "Especially their art. And food."

Someone clears their throat, and I lower my gaze from the artwork above me. Hunter saunters down the hallway, hands in his pockets and green eyes darting between me and Cocoa. "What about food?"

"It's really good here," I say, twirling a piece of my hair around my finger. "Nothing like back home, unfortunately."

He nods. "Ah. Well, that can't be helped." Leaning down, he plants a kiss on Cocoa's cheek, and she giggles. "Anyways, how goes it?"

"Honestly," I say, unable to squash the butterflies in my stomach, "I'm a little worried about the judgment sessions. I'm not entirely sure what I'll show them. If they have the materials for traps, I'll probably take advantage of that as best I can." I keep wandering down the hall with irregular footfalls, thinking about the other tributes. "Steven said he'd blow stuff up, and Nieve said she'd burn stuff up. I guess I'm the passive one in our alliance."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Cocoa says, skipping up alongside me. "You balance them out."

"Yeah, I gue-"

"Vespera!"

I spin around at the sound of my name. Nieve runs down the hallway, waving her hand in greeting. "Hey, I was wondering where you went! The training floor has been open for an hour. Why are you all the way over here?"

"Oh, I was just looking around the hotel with Hunter and Cocoa."

Nieve's grin falters, but only for a brief moment. "Well, tell them I say 'Hi'."

Hunter scoffs. "We're standing right here. It's not like we can't hear her."

"Be nice," I whisper. He should be thankful that Nieve isn't like the rest. She knows about my friends, but she doesn't look down on me for it. In fact, she treats me better than almost everyone else in District Five. If we'd been born in the same district, maybe we even could have been friends.

At least we're friends now. That's all that matters.

"Let's go," Nieve says, waving for me to follow. I hurry to her side, and Cocoa immediately follows, though Hunter is a little more reluctant. I widen my eyes with anticipation and tilt my head, gesturing for him to catch up. He rolls his eyes, but he eventually joins us because he's just a big softie and doesn't like it when I'm mad at him.

"Steven decided to stay and train while I searched for you," Nieve says, holding her hands up and letting out an exasperated sigh. "I understand that he has important things to learn, but at the same time, it's kind of annoying when he thinks that whatever he's trying to learn is more important than knowing that you're safe. He can be so weird sometimes." She seems pretty excited, though I can't really tell whether it's from nervousness or genuine happiness that she found me. "Hey, did you see that one Avox with the huge scar on his face? I wonder what happened to him."

I gradually tune out of the conversation, though Nieve is perfectly happy to carry it on by herself.

"I don't like her," Hunter says. "She talks too much."

Cocoa rolls her eyes. "You're just offended because she talked about us like we weren't in the room."

He momentarily considers the possibility. "Or maybe it's because she's dragging us to the training floor when we could be exploring instead."

"Training is important," I say.

"It totally is," Nieve responds, thinking that I was talking to her. "And I'm sure that we'll both do fine in our sessions."

Hunter narrows his eyes. "Training may be important, Vespera, but you're still better than the others. After all, you're the only one who can see us when we're quite obviously here. You don't need a high score, because you have us." He places his hand on my shoulder. "We're always here for you."

The butterflies grow a little weaker. "We're here for each other."

Nieve turns to me, smiling. "We most certainly are."

* * *

**Padoa Artelle, District Seven Female**

* * *

At the long-range weapons station, Amelithe throw a series of bladed metal circles at one of the dummies, and every single projectile hits its target. Her skills are formidable. Intimidating, even. But when she catches sight of me, she smiles, and it's good to know that she's on my side. I smile back, glad that I have an alliance to call my own, more trustworthy than the lie I used to call my family.

Across the room, Jorah studiously toils away at the medical station, and I figure it's a good a time as any to speak with him.

Seating myself beside him, I peer down at the manual in his hands. "Whatcha doing?"

He flips the booklet over to look at the cover. "Reading about the best methods with which to dress various types of injuries." He shrugs. "I already know most of it, but it never hurts to review. There are a couple of things I would have never thought of, though, like using calendula flowers to treat minor cuts and infections."

"That sounds interesting," I say. "Any hints as to what the arena will be?"

"Actually, yeah." He flips through a few pages, before holding the booklet out to me. "Some focus is placed on how to resuscitate a drowning victim, as well as dealing with jellyfish stings and shark bites. So, unless the gamemakers are setting this up as a red herring, I'm going to bet that the ocean is involved." He turns the page and points to a rather long essay. "What really concerns me, though, is that it also gives instructions on identifying someone who has ingested psychotropic substances."

I furrow my brow, not entirely sure if I should be concerned. "Well, what do you think it means?"

Placing the manual back on the table, Jorah shakes his head. "Hopefully nothing. But with the gamemakers, who knows?"

"You have a point." I glance up at Amelithe as she sinks a few more bladed circles into the dummies. "Do you want to take a break from the medical stuff and get some weaponry practice in?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, I still have a lot to review. Thanks for asking, though."

"No problem." I hop down from the chair and make my way to the weapons station. The trainer inclines his head with acknowledgement, and admittedly it makes me a little happy, just being noticed.

Picking the zweihander up from the weapons rack, I decide upon the leftmost dummy. If it were alive, it would probably be the weakest of the three.

I plant my feet on the innermost ring of the floor and raise the heavy sword above my head. With a tiny gasp, I bring the double-edged blade down across the ivory-skinned dummy, though it doesn't cut deep enough to draw any fake blood. If it were a real tribute, the injury would at least serve to distract them long enough to land a fatal blow.

"Not bad," a voice says, right on the border between candor and patronization.

I roll my eyes and turn to face Adonis. "Coming from you, that's a big compliment."

He uncrosses his arms and lowers his shoulders. "May I offer some advice?"

Narrowing my gaze, I give him a reserved nod, though I don't let down my guard. He's always working some sort of angle, and I hardly doubt this is any sort of exception. But I'd be stupid to turn down help, especially when the Game starts tomorrow.

"You don't follow all the way through," he says, interlacing his fingers and swinging his arms over his shoulder, mimicking my style. "You slow the blade considerably right before you hit the dummy. I don't know if it's a habit, or if you're afraid to actually hit the target, but it impedes your momentum and reduces the maximum damage you can inflict. Also, lean into the swing. When you place your non-dominant foot forward, put as much weight onto that leg as possible. That will increase the force behind the strike."

Skeptically, I take the sword and follow his instructions, and to my surprise, the blade bites deep enough into the dummy's skin to draw a waterfall of crimson-stained grains of rice, meant to represent the fake tribute's blood. The nearby Avox droops a little, probably because he has to clean up the mess I made.

"Good job," Adonis says. I open my mouth to thank him, surprised by this unusual display of generosity, but I lose my words when I find him staring at me with an expression made of sharpened glass. He narrows his eyes and leans back on his heels. "Why did you volunteer?"

The blade weighs heavier every second. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because everyone has a reason. And if you trained for less than six months beforehand, well, that means it was a relatively recent decision." He leans a little closer. "Unless you're just plain stupid." Something in his gaze tells me that he doesn't doubt the last option.

"I have my reasons," I say, squaring my shoulders in an attempt to appear more confident than I actually feel. "And they're just as good as yours, I assure you."

He once again crosses his arms, a hardened edge of self-satisfaction buried in his expression. "Oh, I'm sure they are. But, when you get down to it, 'good' and 'smart' aren't always mutually inclusive. Of course, that doesn't matter much anyways. Despite your general lack of experience, we'll still support you." His mouth turns down at the corners. "That's what allies are for, right?"

Did he only help me to give himself an opportunity to tell me how pathetic I am? What right does he have to judge me, anyways? He doesn't know how strong I am. He doesn't know that I volunteered to escape the lying traitors whom I used to call family. In fact, he barely knows anything about me, other than the length of time I trained before I volunteered. For him to think that I'm just an open book is insulting.

"I don't need your judgment, Adonis," I say, crossing my arms to imitate his condescending posture. "In fact, I'm better off without it."

"That may be so. It doesn't change the fact that you're the weakest of us all. You're _dependent_. But that's alright." His smile makes my skin crawl. "Every Pack needs a mascot."

Fury floods through me, directed towards him because he's a sadistic creep, and directed at myself for allowing him to get under my skin. I should have seen this coming. I can't trust anyone here, my own allies least of all, apparently. Have they all been lying, pretending to like me? Or is Adonis just an outlier? There's no way to know for sure.

But, as much as I try to ignore it, the fury is accompanied by a thread of fear. What if he's right? What if I am the weak one? And what if everyone knows it?

* * *

**Amelithe Arvantis, District One Female**

* * *

Suspiciously, I watch Adonis speak with Padoa. The girl looks uncomfortable, but I don't want to intervene when it isn't necessary. Even when he leaves, though, her frown remains, and I get the feeling that he's up to no good.

As Adonis walks past, an unsettlingly self-satisfied smile on his prettyboy face, I grab his arm and spin him around to face me. "What did you say to Padoa?"

He looks down at me with narrowed eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes, I would. Tell me."

He pauses for a brief moment, probably searching for a good way to warp the facts in his favor. "I just figured I'd give her some advice on swordplay."

"Oh, right, because you're such a helpful person. Give me a break, Adonis. What did you _actually_ do?"

"Believe it or not, that _is_ what I did."

Letting my jaw drop in disgust, I shift my weight and scoff. "You and I both know that isn't the full truth."

He tilts his head to the side with as expression that conveys utter disinterest, as if I'm boring him with my obnoxious behavior. "I might've asked her why she volunteered. Let her know that her lack of training doesn't mean that we don't… _value_ her presence."

For as smart as he is, sometimes he's unable to look past his own petty desires to see the bigger picture. Doesn't he understand what sort of game we're playing, here? We aren't supposed to sabotage our own. "What did you think you'd accomplish by harassing her?" I ask, hardly able to suppress a sneer.

"'Harassing' is a strong word."

"Cut the crap, Adonis. I see what you're doing, and I don't like it. Leave Padoa alone." He responds with a perniciously glacial stare. It may mean that I'll have to watch my back more closely in the arena, but I need to establish my authority now, and I can start by dealing with those who wish to undermine our alliance, and more importantly, undermine me. It's not like any of them would make a better leader. "You can't go around mindfucking the people we're supposed to be allied with. Your juvenile games aren't doing anyone any good." When he still doesn't respond, I lean a little closer. "Well?"

His mouth twitches with a derisive smirk. "I understand." Stepping backwards, his face falls completely blank. "I guess she'll just have to fail all by her lonesome self."

"Watch it, Belmont. Whether or not you like it, she's still on our side. Anything you do to her ends up affecting everyone."

He remains silent, and I can't tell what he's thinking underneath his well-practiced mask of emotionless stone. I want to slap him. I'm the only one around here who's allowed to stir trouble, because unlike our resident shit-disturber, I don't end up destroying perfectly valid alliances.

"Do you know what skill you're going to show the gamemakers?" I ask, searching for a way to smoothly change the subject and distract him from his anger.

His jaw falls slack as he presses his tongue against his teeth. "Yeah. But I'm sure Padoa needs your guidance more than I do." Flashing me a hostile grin, he holds out his hands in a display of disingenuous placation. "Of course, I won't go anywhere near her, because I _respect _your leadership."

I roll my eyes and choose to leave before he gives me another reason to hate him. I'm seriously starting to question whether or not he's actually worth the trouble. His attempts to sow discord cannot succeed. We must be as strong and unified as possible when we enter the arena, and that requires us to check our petty rivalries at the door.

I touch Padoa's shoulder, and she jumps with surprise. I raise my hands in apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

She shakes her head and manages to conceal her agitation with a poker face. "No, no, it's fine. Really." Her knuckles are starting to turn white from grasping the sword so tightly.

"Was Adonis bothering you?" I ask, keeping my tone tentative. She's delicate, and I have to treat her as such. But I can't be too delicate, because then she'll notice that I act differently towards her than the others.

Padoa shakes her head, despite the tremble in her lower lip. Casting her eyes to the ground, she trudges over to the weapons rack to return the sword, and I follow, concerned that Adonis managed to fill her with even more insecurity than she already possessed. She looks back at me and simply says, "He said nothing that I didn't already know."

"I hope you mean that in a good way."

For a moment she is silent, until she barely whispers, "I'm not sure."

I pat her lightly on the shoulder. "Well, whatever he said, don't let him get you down. You need to focus on training and getting a high score, alright?"

Her body language doesn't change. "Alright."

Looking up at the clock, I realize that our training session is nearly at a close. If we're going to discuss strategy and solidify our plan of attack, now is the time.

"Walk with me, Padoa," I say, waving for her to follow. "We have decisions to make."

* * *

**Solaris Noven, District Zero Male**

* * *

I don't know whether to curse my homeland or simply run off into the sunset and never be seen again.

Could I really do that? Just disappear?

Probably not. The peacekeepers would catch me. And if I'm totally honest with myself, I wouldn't last two days out in the woods. I'd end up getting devoured by a moose. Or die of dehydration.

I lean my head back against the wall with an anxious groan. The presentation isn't what kills me, it's the anticipation, the fear beforehand. Knowing this doesn't prevent me from experiencing more nervousness in this one moment than I have ever felt in my entire life. Ever. Not even when I performed for Coin's cousin. Because this? This is life or death. I could very well seal my fate with one miscalculated movement.

Whose idea was it to pick me, anyways? Hyperion? Coin? Fate? Because whoever it was, I deeply resent their decision.

Despite my best efforts to present an outward appearance of calm, I start bobbing my foot up and down to temporarily alleviate some of my nervousness. I want to get up and jump around the room, let off some steam, but I doubt that the rest of my fellow tributes would appreciate that. In fact, most of them look like they're about to see their lunches again. It's in everyone's best interest that I refrain from making their day any worse.

Casting a glance over my shoulder, I notice that even the Careers appear nervous and unsettled, at least to a degree. Everyone's sick with anxiety, and I just want to give them all a hug. This negative atmosphere is killing me.

The clock says that we've been sitting here for a full six minutes, doing absolutely nothing other than marinating in our own fear. Maybe the gamemakers planned for all of us to psyche ourselves out right before the big show. I wouldn't put it past them, what with their 'we love being evil' thing.

Resting my face in my hands, I let out a slow sigh. Can we go already? I'd rather get it done and over with now than wait until the anticipation gives me or one of the other tributes a heart attack.

Etsy lightly elbows my arm, and I raise my head to look at her. "Do you know what you're going to show them?"

"Gymnastics," I say, drawing out the 'y' and waggling my fingers in a mock display of the flamboyance that so many of my coworkers are known for. "I have to do a lot of calisthenics, tumbling, acrobatics and the like to keep fit for my dancing routines. Looks like all that torture finally paid off," I say, mostly joking. "And I'll likely spar for a bit, since the gamemakers like violence and I don't want to rip apart any dummies." Clasping my hands, I ask, "What about you?"

She bites her lower lip. "Actually, I… I'm not entirely sure. I'll probably end up using a whip, but it's not like I'm an expert. We only had three days, after all." Her voice catches, and she sighs weakly. "I know I elected to be here, but… I can't help being scared." I watch, horrified, as a tear rolls down her cheek and drips from her chin. She laughs awkwardly and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sorry."

"Don't be," I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. I can't stand it when people cry. "It's okay to be scared. Just remember that we've got each others' back."

Etsy bobs her head with a nod. "Yeah," she says, barely whispering. "Thanks, Solaris."

I don't get the chance to respond.

Over the loudspeakers, a mechanical, feminine voice says, "Solaris Noven, please report to the gamemakers for evaluation."

"Wish me luck," I say, drawing her close in a side hug before I stand, my hands trembling more than I'd like. I have to remember that it's just one performance. It's impossible to show them all of my skills in a single five-minute session, and if I get a low score, it won't be the end of the world. The gamemakers aren't right about everything. They're just humans, too.

_Humans with absolute control over whether I live or die._

I mentally scold myself. They may be in control of what physically happens to me, but the second I give them power over my thoughts and emotions, that's when I've lost. Self-induced panic will only make a higher score more difficult to attain.

For me, for Gwendolyn, for Etsy, even for Cyprion, I can't let the fear consume me. I will do nearly anything in my power to earn my way back home.

* * *

**Nieve Oswald, District Three Female**

* * *

As the boy from Two saunters down the hallway, fresh from his own judgment session, his district partner gives him a studying glare. He does nothing to reassure her, though he's obviously trying to hide a smirk. I presume he performed well.

"Venera Toulley, please report to the gamemakers for evaluation."

The girl from Two rises from her seat, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that a bunch of strangers hold her life in their hands. She flips her hair over her shoulder and exhales, almost like she's bored, before disappearing behind the double doors. Showing off to the gamemakers probably makes the rest of us more nervous than the Careers, considering they've all trained for this their entire lives. But what kind of life is that, anyways?

"I wonder what he's so smug about," Steven asks, skin pallid. He's not handling the situation as well as I would have hoped.

"He's a Career," I say, ignoring the glares from the Careers seated to my left. "Smugness is basically coded into their DNA. After all, they're supposed to know what they're doing."

Beside me, the boy from Four scoffs, but otherwise remains silent. His district partner, Azure, sends me a seething glare, and I can't help but smile. Whether they love me or hate me, at least I'm leaving an impression.

A few minutes later, the double doors open to reveal Venera Toulley, appearing just as calm and distant as she did before. The robotic voice says, "Steven Krane, please report to the gamemakers for evaluation."

"Good luck," I say, patting his arm. He acknowledges the encouragement with a soft-spoken 'thank you' as the Avox props open the door for him.

I hope he does well. Vespera, too. And me. We need sponsors in order for our alliance to survive. One part of the sponsorship equation requires us to earn decent scores. Nothing too high, because that might prompt the other tributes to target us, especially the Careers. But if we score too low, then everyone will write us off early-on. Balance is key. The other part of the equation calls for a memorable persona. If the sponsors remember us, regardless of whether we're rude or nice, they're more likely to give us money than if we fade into the background. They're looking for personalities, and I'm perfectly capable of giving them what they want.

"You're up next," Steven says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"That was fast."

He wraps his hand around the back of his neck. "Yeah. They weren't too happy with the mess I made, but I don't think I did too bad." He casts his gaze downward. "At least, I hope I didn't."

"I'm sure you did fine," I say. The robot over the intercom calls my name, and I hop up from the bench with a purposefully bright smile, trying to pretend that I'm not afraid. No one can know my anxiety. Not the other tributes, not the gamemakers, not my allies. Not even me.

"Be back in a bit."

I push through the doors before the Avox has time to hold them open for me. The interior hallway isn't as well-lit as I would have expected, and it only reinforces the sense that I'm traipsing through the belly of some mighty beast.

_ No. Can't think like that. It's not a beast unless you turn it into one._

I enter the judging room, momentarily surprised by the sheer number of stations and supplies lined up along the walls, ranging from plant identification to rope climbing, rope tying to general weaponry, medical equipment and applications to fire making, and the list goes on. My eyes immediately dart to the medical table and fire tools. I can work with those.

High up on the balcony, the gamemakers talk idly as they feast upon a well-stocked buffet table. One woman stands separate from them, leaning against the railing, her dark hair drawn back in a meticulous bun. She narrows her eyes in greeting.

"Nieve Oswald," I say, bowing slightly. "District Three."

The woman waves her hand as if she's shooing me away. "Chop chop, Nieve. Show us what you're made of."

From the fire station I grab a few matches and a piece of kindling, and from the medical station, I grab a roll of cloth, a needle-less plastic plunger, and a few medium-sized vials of essential oil. Judging by the scents, the essences belong to eucalyptus and rosemary, both of which possess exceptionally low flashpoints. Excellent.

Placing my supplies on the ground, I glance at the clock. Four and a half minutes left.

Furiously, I wrap the cloth around the piece of kindling with the intent of making a torch. It won't last very long, since I didn't soak the wood in water, but it will last long enough. I pour a bit of the eucalyptus oil onto the cloth and wait for it to absorb completely. Delicately, I fill the plunger with the remainder of the eucalyptus essence, careful to keep the oil off of my skin. I don't want the Avoxes to douse me with a fire extinguisher.

Tilting the torch away from me, I strike a match against the ground and bring the hungry flames to the tightly wound fabric. The fire rushes to engulf the entire ball of oil-soaked gauze, perhaps a little faster than I wanted.

Conscious to avoid placing my hand directly underneath the flames, I grab the plunger and carefully align the outlet with the fire. I don't want to burn myself, and I don't want to damage the room. Aiming for the non-combustible cement floor, I push the plunger down, and a stream of oil jets forward, igniting as it runs through the glowing orange. It isn't the most intimidating flamethrower, I suppose, but it would both injure my opponent and distract them long enough for me to escape.

An Avox strides over and subdues the leftover puddle of fire with a heavy blanket and a fire extinguisher. Just to be safe, apparently.

Before I get a chance to switch to the spears, the buzzer rings. "That will be all, Miss Oswald."

I calmly place the still-burning torch down on the ground, and another Avox snatches it up before I have time to stomp out the flames. Turning to the gamemakers, I give a deep bow, twirling my hands with excess flourish.

"Thanks!" I cry, flouncing out of the room. I want them to remember me.

It's the best chance I have at victory.

* * *

**Bluebell Aspen, Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games**

* * *

"Sit with me, dear."

Padoa looks up with fearful eyes, as if she feels guilty but isn't sure what crime she's committed. Obediently, she takes the seat beside me on the couch. Her porcelain fingers wrestle with each other, twitching incessantly and tracing irregular circles, an obvious sign of stress.

I rest my hand over hers. "What's wrong?"

With a delicate sigh, she smiles and pulls her hands away. "I just don't know if I performed very well in front of the gamemakers."

I furrow my brow. "Are you sure that's all?"

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but she instead casts her gaze to the ground. "Yeah. That's it."

"Well." I cross my legs. "I'm sure you're in good shape. And if you aren't, the score doesn't mean much. It's just their perception of you. If they give you a low score, simply prove them wrong."

The corner of her lips twitch with a weak grin. "That's the plan."

On the holo-screen, Caesar Flickerman holds his arms out, more than happy to show off his trademark so-white-they're-blue teeth. He laughs, and I cringe at the artificiality of the gesture. How is he still employed? Can't the idiots in District Zero tell that everything he does is the epitome of fake?

"Panem, are you ready to see what sort of tributes we're dealing with this year?" A huge roar rises from the audience, though I can't tell if the noise originates from real vocal cords or if it's synthesized. "Then let's see those training scores!"

Solaris Noven appears on the screen, accompanied by his score of 8. I arch an eyebrow. "Well, you know who to avoid."

Cedar smirks. "Or who to kill first."

I shoot my fellow mentor a silencing glare. He's smart, but he sometimes forgets himself. We're responsible for these kids, and it only takes one incorrect assessment of their enemies' strength to permanently end their bids for victory. It's safer to avoid the stronger competition altogether.

Solaris's district partner, Etsy, only manages to score a 4. I feel a slight pang of secondhand embarrassment for the girl.

The boy from District One receives a 10, while the girl earns herself a 9. It wasn't entirely unexpected, but their scores are still fairly high.

District Two doesn't have such luck. Sebastian apparently performed well, since a 9 appears under his name, but his district partner earns a 5. Cedar smirks once again, but somehow manages to contain himself.

"They're the ones who split off, right?" I ask. Padoa nods slowly.

District Three earns adequate scores, and the boy from Four surprises no one with his score of 6.

But his district partner, a girl by the name of Azure, manages to shock us with her apparent prowess. A bold, black 10 appears next to her coy smile, and Cedar lets out a whistle. "I'm glad these juggernauts are on your side."

Jorah stares at the screen with wide eyes. "I didn't think she had it in her."

The tributes from Five don't perform exceptionally well. The girl, Vespera, receives a 3, though Stark manages a 6.

District Six flashes onto the screen, and I shake my head. The boy gets a 1, but a score of 4 appears alongside the girl's picture. Not terrible, but not great, either. In comparison to her district partner, though, it's a massive difference. District Six will most likely be pinning their hopes on her.

Cedar guffaws at the boy's misfortune. "1? Really? I hope he doesn't trip on a rock and kill himself in the bloodbath."

"Quiet in the peanut gallery," I say slapping his leg.

He holds out his arms in questioning. "Well, excuse me for trying to make light of a pathetic situation that would otherwise make me cry."

I hold my breath as I stare at the holo-screen, racked with sickeningly intense anticipation. We desperately need another victor this year, otherwise we'll lose our Career status and legally be forced to shut down our academy. If Jorah and Padoa bring in high scores, they'll attract more sponsors. I want them to live, of course, but I can't help but want to retain our Career status, as well. As morbid as it is, it's done wonders for the economy.

Jorah's face appears, right beside a black 9. I grin with elation and open my mouth to congratulate him, but I notice the 4 under Padoa's name and all of my words leave me. That's the lowest score of all the Careers.

She stares at the screen with wide, shimmering eyes, and before I can offer her any consolation, she's gone.

"Well." Cedar interlaces his fingers and stares down at the ground. "Shit."

"Good job, Jorah," I say, offering him the brightest smile I can manage. As much as it pains me to do so, I have to admit that his chances of sponsorship just jumped dramatically, while Padoa's likely just entered free fall.

Sighing deeply, I rise from my seat and edge down the hall. I knock on the doorframe to announce my presence before entering her room, and gently the door behind me. "Padoa?"

She rests her chin on her fist, tears dancing at the edges of her eyelashes. She tries to say something, but her lower lip trembles, and she instead chooses to remain silent.

Seating myself beside her, I lean forward in an attempt to look her in the eyes. "Don't let the gamemakers' judgment get in the way of your performance in the arena." Cautiously, I place my hand on her shoulder. "You have to prove them wrong."

The girl gives no detectible reaction.

"Padoa," I say, drawing her closer. "You'll get through this. Your score isn't nearly as important as how you handle yourself in the arena. Even the best-trained Careers end up dying early-on because they can't handle the stress, or they think too highly of themselves, or the gamemakers simply have a vendetta against them for whatever reason. It's up to you, dear. Your chances are just as good as Jorah's, or any other tribute."

She wipes away a tear, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I know"

* * *

**Jorah Horne, District Seven Male**

* * *

Behind the closed door, I hear Padoa speaking with Bluebell in broken tones. I still can't understand how she scored so low. Sure, she wasn't the strongest among the Careers, but I didn't expect her to get a 4. Judging by the muffled sobs, neither did she.

"Harsh," Cedar says, casting a glance at Padoa's room. "I hope she can come back from that."

Up on the screen, tributes' pictures, names, and scores keep popping up, but I can't concentrate enough to connect the numbers with the faces. I should have been there for my district partner, supporting her when the other tributes, especially Adonis, decided to mess with her.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Cedar, can I speak with you?"

He gestures to the television. "What, you don't want to watch Flickerman tear Padoa a new one for getting the lowest score in the Pack?"

"Actually no, I don't." I rise from the couch and wrap my hands around the back of my neck. Lowering the volume of my voice, I ask, "Can we talk somewhere that isn't here?"

Understanding that I don't want Padoa to overhear our conversation, my mentor nods and follows me into the kitchen. On the white table, there sits a vibrant gift basket, filled with all sorts of tropical fruits and packaged snacks. Over the past three days, none of us have touched it. It's like District Zero is trying to thank us for showing up to our own death match.

Cedar leans against the archway. Even though he's a few inches shorter than I am, he possesses the sort of presence that makes me feel small when I stand next to him. "Tell me what's on your mind, kiddo."

I heave a sigh and stare up at the ivory ceiling, before closing my eyes and letting my hand fall to my side. "I don't know if we made the right decision when we agreed to join with the other Careers."

He gives a slow nod, but otherwise remains unreadable. "Why?"

"Because Adonis went out of his way to unnerve Padoa. I think he's the reason why she got such a low score. He psyched her out, and-"

"Do you really think that?" Cedar crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, studying me. For once, he's completely serious. "Do you?"

I throw my arms up into the air. "At this point, I don't know. Padoa was fine before he talked to her, and now she's… well, you can see for yourself." I try to say something else, but I'm angry, and the words don't form correctly. Taking a calming breath, I rest my hand on my forehead. "Azure and Lapis didn't say a damn thing, and Amelithe only tried to patch things up because she wanted to save face. I just… I don't know if what I _am_ doing is what I _should _be doing."

"What other options do you have?"

"That's the thing." I pause, making sure I truly want to tell him. I roll my eyes at my own nervousness. "The Careers from District Two offered to accept Padoa and me into their alliance."

Cedar pushes off from the wall, his eyes suddenly dark. "What did you say to them?"

"I told them that I'd think about it," I say, taking a step back, surprised by his sudden change in demeanor. "You know, keeping my options open."

He gives a curt nod. "That was a good answer. But regardless of how cruel the rest of your alliance is, you need to realize what consequences would result if you switched your allegiance. You have no idea what sort of people these District Two kids are. They could be worse than Adonis or Amelithe put together. And it doesn't matter how great Sebastian scored, because Venera got a 5. You saw. The alliance that you're currently in has four of the highest-scoring tributes, including you, and that means more sponsors. Ever think about that?"

"Of course. I'm not as stupid as you think."

"It isn't about smart or stupid, Jorah. It's about analysis, and making the best decision based on as much information as possible."

I cross my arms, glaring down at the tiled floor. "Yeah. Fine. I get it."

He lightly slaps my arm, meant more to draw my attention than to annoy me. "Hey, don't get all prissy." He leans closer, staring me dead in the eye. "I'm not you. I can't make your decisions, because they're yours, and yours alone. I'm not going to pretend that I know every little detail about your situation. But I can tell you that no matter what you do, you're going to end up regretting most of the decisions that you make between now and whenever you get out of the arena, whether you win or lose. Either way, you'll have to make a choice and stick with it. You'll get splinters if you sit on the fence too long."

I concede a single nod. "Okay."

I need to stick with Padoa. As district partners, its our mutual responsibility to keep each other safe. That is my decision.

Staring at the clock, Cedar says, "It's almost time for the interviews, anyways." His mouth twitches with a smile, but his humor is forced. "Try to pretend that there's no trouble in paradise, alright? The sponsors like a strong Pack."

* * *

**The training scores have been posted on the blog. **

**What do you think of the scores? Any surprises?**

**First update of the year, and I'm already late. Pretty much the abridged version of my time on FanFiction, eh? **

**I just started school again (hence the tardiness) and my update schedule will probably be a bit haywire for a while. I'll try to avoid any more 2-week gaps, but alas, no promises. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. The Nightmare is Real

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Enobaria Harker, Victor of the Sixty-First Hunger Games**

* * *

Sebastian leans back against the couch, face unreadable. It would seem that he made a poor decision by solely allying with Venera, since she earned herself the second-lowest score of the Careers. In fact, her performance was apparently so painfully mediocre that the gamemakers saw fit to bestow higher scores upon several outer-district tributes. The kids who have no prior training, no honor, and no idea what they're in for managed to outperform my _Career_. Shit, even the overly-pampered kid from Zero scored an 8. And yet, the trained tribute currently under my authority managed to score a 5.

I don't know what's more disgraceful: her low score, or the fact that she has no idea how she failed so spectacularly.

We haven't had a victor in eleven years, and we desperately need one to retain our legal status as a Career district. Granted, we aren't in as bad shape as District Seven, but if we don't bring home a winner soon, we'll do irreparable damage to the legacy that the generations before us built with their own blood. Our ancestors are surely weeping in light of our imminent failure.

That fate decided to bestow Venera Toulley upon us in this time of need must be a joke of cosmic proportions. The last time a female from District Two earned a 5 in training, she ended up dying in the bloodbath at the hands of her own allies. The rest of the Pack recognized that she was nothing but dead weight, and destroyed her accordingly. At this point, I wouldn't blame Sebastian for doing to same. He's our only real chance.

As much as it pains me to do so, I've already agreed to dedicate all of Venera's sponsor money to Sebastian. I'd rather focus our efforts on the kid who can win. Weaklings like Venera rarely last long, anyways, and realistically, it would be kinder to keep her suffering to a minimum.

"So," Griffin says, leaning heavily on the table, his eyes just a little too wide for comfort, "you know who to kill first, right?"

Venera uncrosses her legs and sits up straight. "What are you talking about?"

I sigh, running my fingernails across the counter. "Of course you wouldn't know. A dead amoeba has stronger battle instincts than you do."

She falls silent and looks down at her folded hands, gaze distant. I really wish she weren't such a weak-willed fool.

I'm not intentionally trying to push her towards defeat, but I can only do so much with the materials handed to me. If she's unable to properly analyze fighting tactics and willingly allows Sebastian to make every executive decision, then even my mentoring capabilities will do her no good.

Sebastian raises his hands above his head with a yawn, eyes locked onto his mentor. "Are you expecting me to actually give you an answer?"

Griffin nods with more enthusiasm than a normal human being would display. "Of course." He gets off on the fighting, but fails to realize that it is merely a means to an end. Violence for the sole sake of violence isn't strategically sound. Either you rip the kid's throat out to impress the sponsors or to eliminate the competition, never to watch the blood run down the rocks. It's a waste of energy as well as an unnecessary risk.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. "Well, logically speaking, we'll first want to pick off the non-Careers who managed to get high scores. So, the boy from Zero, the boy from Five, the pair from Ten, the girl from Eleven, and the girl from Thirteen."

"That would be the correct answer if you didn't have to compete with the main Career pack," I say, slightly disappointed in Sebastian's lack of foresight. He's supposed to be the intelligent one. "Since you have the kids from One, Four, and Seven to worry about, you'll probably want to let the strong non-Career tributes live just long enough to take out some of your strongest competition. In this scenario, I advise that you kill off the weak ones first."

Nodding with consideration, he says, "That's true. But I'd rather face the weaker ones in the finale than get rid of them first thing."

"Someone has to kill them sooner or later, Sebastian," I say. "It might as well be sooner. The sponsors like proactive Careers."

I don't have the chance to talk any more sense into him, because the clock on the wall begins to chime, alerting us to the fact that the interviews are almost upon us. Pity. I hate the interviews. So contrived. The tired questions and frightened faces get more wearisome every year, but I have to watch the entire show in order to play it up to the sponsors.

_See? He has determination. See? She can handle pressure. See? All those other kids are worthless, and here's why._

* * *

**Venera Toulley, District Two Female**

* * *

Gloria clicks her fingernails together when she's nervous, and as she searches the shelves for the proper makeup, her hands sound like the most irritating of insects. But I remain silent. Letting her know what annoys me would merely give her the upper-hand.

"You look so good in cream," she says, gently stroking the sheer, crinkly fabric. "The audience is going to love you!"

"I doubt it."

They cannot love someone whom they do not know. The answers I give Flickerman don't reflect on my personality so much as my ability to act and keep calm under pressure. That's hardly worthy of praise.

Furthermore, love is a trite, petty thing. Sooner or later, I'll do something to offend their shallow sensibilities, and every drop of infatuation will either evaporate or curdle into vitriolic, implacable hatred. People reserve their deepest loathing for things they used to love. I would be no exception. Therefore, it is better that the audience feels nothing towards me at all.

My stylist briefly stops powdering my face and gives my arm a light slap. "Oh, lighten up, Venera. With that attitude, they might just throw you out."

"Or kill me. You people tend to do that quite often to the things that displease you." I shrug. "Even the things you like tend to meet rather unfortunate ends."

Her hand freezes and her amber eyes widen with hurt. "Excuse me? 'You people'? You think I have any say in what goes on in the arena?"

So the Hunger Games are a sensitive topic. Interesting. "You have authority over how Panem perceives me, at least in terms of physical appearance. Therefore, you have partial control over how many sponsors I receive, which in turn affects the strength of my alliance overall and every member involved, which thus far only includes Sebastian. However, looking even closer, you actually have an indirect impact on the sponsorship and well-being of the rest of the tributes in the arena, as well. For example, if you make me look like a slut who takes more pride in her rack than her reputation, the sponsors are more likely to give me money, and in turn, not give money to whatever other pretty girl they had in mind. In the end, I am better off than the other pretty girl, and vice versa if you perform poorly. Does that make sense?"

She furrows her brow, genuinely perturbed by this revelation that she does, in fact, hold sway over the Hunger Games. What a horror it must be, realizing that she's had a hand in the deaths of the pretty little tributes she's dressed up. Then again, all of Panem holds a certain degree of responsibility. The gamemakers, the bystanders, and especially the citizens of District Zero who finance the arenas.

And she thinks that I want love from all of those guilty souls?

A skinny young man leans through the doorway. "Sebastian just started his interview. You should probably hurry up."

Gloria gasps, and hastily twists my hair up into an intentionally messy bun, supposedly an 'in' style this year. "Let's go, Venera!"

She pushes me down the hallway and towards the waiting room, genuinely surprising me with her strength. All of the other tributes who haven't been interviewed are present, save the girl from District Eleven. Maybe her stylist is as slow as mine.

Leaning against the hallway that connects the waiting room to the stage, Enobaria catches sight of me, lips pursed and arms crossed. "Took you long enough. You're on deck." She grabs my shoulder and drags me to the edge of the stage. On the other side of the curtain, Sebastian speaks in jovial tones, and Caesar bursts out laughing. Though I cringe at the grating sound, I can only assume that my district partner's interview is going well.

"Well," Caesar says, "it's been a pleasure, but we're running up against a hard break. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Sebastian Flynn!"

The crowd goes insane. Enobaria leans down to my ear and whispers, "Don't fuck up. This is your last chance to get sponsors, and considering your training score, you'd better make this count." She grits her sharpened teeth. "Don't disappoint me."

_As if I haven't already._ I don't exist to impress her, but I know that her arrogance demands obedience. "Yes, ma'am."

One of the assistants hurries over and shoos me onto the stage. Every single stage light focuses on me, and I smile at the cameras, hoping that the live audience and multitudes of people on the other side of the lenses see a confident, prepared Career.

"Ah, Venera." Caesar opens his arms in greeting, though he remains seated. "How are you, dear?"

I sit in the red velvet chair beside him, dipping my shoulder and curling the corner of my lips in a half-grin. "I'm fine, Caesar. How are you?"

"I'm positively ecstatic." He turns to the cameras and laughs. "Now, enough small-talk. Your training score was one of the lowest among the Careers. What was your reaction when you saw that 5 next to your name?"

"Wow," I say, tilting my head, careful to maintain my smile. "Straight for the jugular, huh?" He holds his hands out in placation, and I sigh. "It was a little surprising, honestly. I guess that I didn't give them what they were looking for." I brighten my tone, careful not to sound too self-pitying. "But I'm not going to let their judgment get me down. After all, I can't show them everything I know in a five-minute timespan, and brute force isn't the only path to victory."

I hope Enobaria realizes that I'm specifically referencing Sebastian. His superiority complex and better training score hardly ensure that his chances of victory are any higher than mine. If anything, it gives me a reason to fight harder.

* * *

**Alina Clout, District Nine Female**

* * *

"Are you nervous?" Barnabas asks, his skin unusually pale even with the thick layer of foundation caked onto his face.

I look down at my hands. They're trembling. "A little. Are you?"

He scoffs, but the sound is forced. "Nah. I'm fine."

"Good to know." His reassurances are hardly convincing. Why would he lie, though? What would motivate him to conceal the truth? Perhaps it is a coping mechanism. Or maybe he doesn't want to show weakness. He's about to speak before the entirety of Panem, which leads me to believe that he's only acting brave in order to attract sponsors. Either that, or he's lying to himself. I suppose both methods would lead to the same outcome.

"You know," Fenby says, leaning across the aisle, "It's perfectly natural to feel anxiety. The trouble starts when you let it tangle up all of your thoughts."

Barnabas rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Doctor Frost." His tone is noticeably more defensive, likely offended by Fenby's patronizing manner. I don't think she means to be that way. It's just how she is.

She straightens her posture. "I'm just trying to help."

"Yeah, I know." Barnabas consciously relaxes his shoulders and rolls his head back and forth. "Sorry. I'm just a little stressed out."

Sterling inclines his head. "I think we all are."

The holo-screen television that hangs from the ceiling offers us tributes in the waiting room a decent view of what's happening onstage. Caesar speaks with Steven, and with each passing question, the boy from Three becomes more frustrated. When Caesar finally asks him about his confiscated token, Steven raises his voice, stands up, and indignantly walks off the stage before the buzzer rings.

"That wasn't very smart," Fenby says, crossing her legs. "I doubt that was part of his original plan."

"Why would he do that?" I ask, thoroughly puzzled. "It makes no sense. There must be a reason."

Barnabas shrugs. "Some people just do weird things when they're afraid. Don't waste too much time thinking about it."

I lean forward and clasp my hands. Even if he was nervous, it makes absolutely no sense to have a meltdown on national television, since such a display of immaturity would only damage his chances of obtaining sponsors, and therefore, his chances at victory. I suppose he's the type of person who loses all of their senses when confronted with situations they can't control. If that's the case, he won't have much fun in the arena.

His district partner's interview goes much smoother. She has the sort of appeal that people in District Zero tend to like: charismatic, smiley, peppy, and full of all the "right" answers. I wish I knew how to emulate her success, but I've never been good at speaking in front of other people. My thoughts usually end up running together into one massive chain of word vomit and embarrassment. Maysilee told me that Caesar helps the tributes when we need it, though, so perhaps he'll be kind enough to nudge me along when I inevitably get stuck in an intellectual rut.

Lapis Maccolade is a troublemaker, if I ever saw one. He cracks a couple of crude jokes, one so racy that Caesar smiles at the cameras in embarrassment. Even though the audience breaks down into hysterics, I don't know if that's the most sound strategy. After all, jokes don't give any indication to how prepared the boy is, or if he is at all competent. Humor does leave a good impression on the viewers, though. A synthesis of jokes and actual answers would probably be the ideal formula for someone like him.

"So," Sterling says, drawing my attention away from the screen as he offers me a smile. It looks a little too bright to be real. "Do you know what you're going to talk about?"

I furrow my brow. "Myself, of course."

He laughs, his expression loosening by a fraction. "Obviously, since the interview is about you. I meant, what subjects are you going to specifically mention? Siblings, pets, friends? Observations of District Zero? Your favorite foods?"

"Oh." I rack my brain for an answer. Didn't I plan this out beforehand? That would have been smart, wouldn't it? "Observations, I guess. I'm good at those."

He cocks his head to the side, obviously intrigued. "Really? Do you have an example?"

"Well. Claudius Templesmith looks like he had his face smashed in a doorway when he was little."

Sterling's lungs immediately void themselves of air in one hoarse rasp, and he spends the next few seconds with his hand over his mouth, shoulders bouncing with silent laughter. Beside him, Fenby unsuccessfully tries to hide a smile. I don't get it. What's so funny?

Coughing, he places a hand on his chest in an effort to slow his breathing. "You know, it could just be me, but I think you should keep that particular thought to yourself. Unless you want Claudius to target you in particular."

I didn't think of that.

Leaning my cheek against my fist, I let out a sigh. "I'm sure I'll think of something."

I always do. And as long as I can keep myself from saying anything profoundly idiotic, I should be fine.

* * *

**Rion Farrow, District Six Female**

* * *

"So, Miss Farrow, what part of home do you miss the most?"

I twist my hair around my finger, trying to maintain a balance between playful and genuine. I don't want to look like a ditz, but I don't want to look unapproachable, either. "It might sound cheesy, but I really miss my friends and family. They've always been there for me before, but this time I have to go it alone."

"Well, I'm sure they're rooting for you."

Smiling inwardly, I smooth out a few of the folds in my dress. "I think you're right, Caesar."

He raises his eyebrows and waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, well, aren't I always?" He turns to the cameras, laughing with the audience. "Now, please tell us about that beautiful outfit of yours. Is it completely your stylist's design, or did you help?"

I glance down at the intricately woven black cloth, then back at Caesar. "Fernandina originally planned to make the dress silver, but I vetoed that idea. For one, I look absolutely awful in any sort of metallic fabric." I don't know where this fashion-speak is coming from, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless. "And silver is pretty much my least favorite color, so I'm glad she took my opinion into consideration."

He cocks an eyebrow, and it takes me a moment to realize that what I just said could be construed as an insult. He's literally dressed head-to-toe in silver, and I just told him that it's my least favorite color. How did I fail to make the connection?

_Good job, Rion._

My jaw drops. "Oh, no! I didn't mean it like- I'm so sorry!" The audience is going crazy with laughter. "It looks good on you, though!"

Flickerman raises his hand to calm me down, wearing an amused smile. I think his expression is genuine, but then again, he could just be a good actor. "No, no, it's fine. Believe me when I say that I know interviews are difficult." He looks shamefacedly at the cameras. "I'm sure everyone remembers my little zebra fiasco. Ugh, I was so embarrassed."

Even more laughter erupts from the seated crowd, a feat I thought impossible. Regardless of their amusement, I can't stop the heat from rising to my cheeks. I only have one chance to make a first impression, and the way things are going, I'll have offended everyone in Panem by the time this interview is over.

As my heart knocks against my ribs, Caesar wipes an amused tear from his eye. "Anyways, Miss Farrow, our time together is nearly over. Do you have any ending comments before we part ways?"

I search desperately for a single phrase with which to make up for my pitiable lack of tact. "I can only say that it was an honor to meet you in person, Mr. Flickerman, and I hope to see you again in a few weeks."

"Oh, you're so kind." Twirling his hands through the air with excessive grandeur, he cries, "Ladies and gentlemen, Rion Farrow!"

I stand from the chair and shake his hand, trying to keep my expression as positive as possible. I wave at the audience as I exit stage left, desperately hoping that someone else after me will mess up bad enough to take Panem's mind off of my gaffe. It's a long shot, but at this point it's the only hope I have to preserve what remains of my public image.

When I reach the greenroom, Lapis says, "So, you got something against silver, eh?"

I shrug. "I look terrible in it, and silver always signifies second place. I prefer first. It's nothing personal, just my own preference."

"Sure." Lapis winks at me, as if there's some secret between us.

Though I can't imagine what sort of secret that would be, I choose to ignore the boy from Four and take a seat beside Stark.

"I really don't see what the problem was," he says. "You simply voiced your opinion. You didn't tell Flickerman that he looks bad in silver, just that you don't like the color itself. I don't think that the people who were going to sponsor you will suddenly change their mind because you misspoke." He raises his eyebrows. "In fact, they might find you more endearing because of it. Contrary to popular belief, inconsequential accidents can occasionally aid the public's perception of a tribute."

I'm taken aback by his conversational attitude. Stark has never spoken so many words in a row before, at least unsolicited. Maybe he's finally starting to lighten up, which would mean that I'm finally getting him to come out of his shell. That would be a feat, if I ever saw one.

"Thank you, Stark. It means a lot."

He shrugs. "I'm not trying to comfort you. It's just the way I see it."

Nodding to myself, I stare up at the screen, where the boy from Seven speaks with Caesar about his life as a Career. "Either way, I appreciate it."

* * *

**Fae Layman, Victor of the Seventy-Third Hunger Games**

* * *

Chase hisses as he wraps the bandages around his left hand, gritting his teeth to distract himself from the pain.

I cannot suppress my frown. Voice low, I ask, "Do... do you want me to get some medicine for the burn?"

He shakes his head, patting the gauze into place with the utmost delicacy. "No," he whispers. "They'll just re-brand me if I try to make the injury to heal faster."

Lowering my gaze, I nod. "Right. Sorry, I forgot."

Raking his good hand through his graying hair, he stands from his seat. "If you want to worry about someone, worry about Katniss. Hers is ten times worse than mine."

The brand is a mere sliver of the price that Chase, Katniss, Finnick, and Nero pay for the parts they played in the Second Rebellion. Every year before the Game, even if they aren't mentoring, they have to return so the people in District Zero can re-brand them as traitors. Chase, Finnick, and Nero all receive the mark on the back of their left hand. But Katniss, since she was the closest thing the movement had to a leader, receives the brand on her back. Coin and Hyperion were kind enough to let them keep their lives, but that is where their compassion ends.

I can't imagine going through that, year after year after year. They must dread returning to District Zero more than anything.

"Where are you going?" I ask, craning my neck as he nears the greenroom exit. "Fenby and Sterling haven't been interviewed yet."

He props the door open with his foot and turns to me. "I'm going to speak with Nero. I haven't seen him all year; might as well catch up while I have the chance."

"Right now?"

"He's heading home as soon as they release him, so he can spend time with his family."

I lean my forearms against the table and clench my fists. Stupid. I should have remembered that Nero's wife, struck over the past few years with a myriad of degenerative neurological disorders that are suspiciously absent from her family history, probably won't live to see next month. "Sorry, I-"

"You forgot." Chase sighs. "Yeah, I know."

"Tell him I said 'hi'."

Chase nods in acknowledgement before closing the door behind him, leaving me with the other mentors. We have to wait in a room separate from the tributes, but once the last interview is over, we can go back to our own penthouses and talk about the interviews or discuss arena strategies. I can't wait until I'm allowed to leave. The other mentors scare me.

On the holo-screen, Caesar cries, "Please welcome Sterling Loaker!"

The audience is rife with cheering and whistles and catcalls, though that's a common occurrence for most of the older tributes. I bite my fist, hoping against hope that he'll remember all of the talking points he discussed with Chase this morning. His motivations for volunteering rank as the highest priority. If he can't articulate that point, then he might as well have been reaped.

I rest my chin on the table and wrap my arms around my head, heart palpitating and teeth chattering with the fear that he'll misspeak or Caesar will hate him or the sponsors will simply snub him because we're from an outer-district. But as I watch the interview unfold, none of these things happen. Sterling does look slightly uncomfortable, yet he manages to answer all of the questions with tact and relative ease, even the inevitable, delicate ones that deal with his illness.

"I figured I had two options," he says, not quite smiling. "I could have stayed in District Ten, withered over the next ten years, and died. Or I could volunteer, and maybe have a chance at living a healthy life. To me, it really wasn't a choice. It was obvious."

I breathe a sigh of relief when Caesar dismisses him. It was a good interview. Sterling handled himself surprisingly well.

Fenby's performance begins equally well. She's all smiles and charm, with a witty answer for all of Caesar's questions. For a minute, I actually expect her interview to go just as well as Sterling's.

Then he decides to ask her about her district of origin.

"So, Fenby. You were born in District One and you lived there for the majority of your life, correct?" Her face drains of color as Caesar lowers his tone, almost in mock-secrecy. "In fact, my sources tell me that you trained for a few years before the big move."

Fighting to recompose herself, Fenby manages to fake a smile. "Yes, that's true."

The audience gasps and my stomach flips. I have no idea what sort of impact this will have on her sponsorship aspects, or her alliance. Either way, this can't be good. He caught her off-guard, and it shows. Oh no, no no no.

The rest of the interview passes in a blur, but I can't speak with my tributes until all of the interviews are over. I tug at my hair, trying to stay sane as the boy from Twelve drones on, and the girl from Thirteen speaks of the tunnels in which her people used to live. I don't care about their lives. I want to speak with Sterling and Fenby and make sure that everything is okay.

The second Caesar says goodnight to Panem, I hurry down the hallway to the tributes' greenroom. As I near the door, it swings open to reveal Sterling, expression dark, with Fenby following close behind.

"I didn't think they knew," she says, clearly agitated. Sterling passes me, and I run to catch up.

"It doesn't matter what you thought," he says, spinning around to face her as soon as he reaches the elevator. She stops abruptly, surprised by his confrontational posture. Usually he's so mild-mannered. "It matters that you were a hypocrite and kept the truth from me."

I drag her inside the elevator before the doors close, and repeatedly press the button for the nineteenth floor. Can't this elevator go any faster? This situation is terribly awkward and I don't like it.

"What?" Fenby says, voice dangerously low. Second floor. "Did you just call me a hypocrite?"

Sterling shakes his head, smirking. "'District partner honesty' ring a bell? No?" Fifth floor. "Well, maybe this will help: 'Sterling, you and I need to be honest with each other. After all, we're district partners.'" He shakes his head in disgust. "You get to have secrets, but I don't? Not really the alliance I had in mind."

Tenth floor.

I know I should say something, but I fear that whatever I say will only make things worse. That's what usually happens when I try to help.

"It's not like that, Sterling," she says, placing her hand on his arm. He doesn't move. "I didn't want anyone to know. It will only encourage the Careers to target me, and by default, you." Fourteenth floor. "I didn't mean for it to get out of hand."

His silence speaks volumes. Fenby lets her hand fall to her side, defeated.

We eventually reach the nineteenth floor. My tributes immediately file out of the elevator when the doors slide open, hardly acknowledging each others' existence.

No. No no no. Chase is going to kill me. He's only been gone for thirty minutes, and District Ten's chances at victory are rapidly approaching zero.

If we lose, it will be all my fault.

* * *

**Julian Mardale, District Eight Male**

* * *

As soon as I unbutton my jacket, I tear the suffocating ocean of fabric off of my chest and throw it across the room. "Finally! I thought I was going to die of a heatstroke."

My stylist wanted to exemplify District Eight's prowess with fabrics by dressing me in a tuxedo-type costume, but he added a whole crapton of unnecessary things, like silk ruffles and cashmere bows and a vinyl tie. It was truly a sight to behold, but I don't know if the sponsors were necessarily impressed. I know I wasn't.

Ripping the tie from my neck, I flop down on the couch beside Valorie and turn on the television. "See, that wasn't too bad, was it? Caesar is a pretty nice guy. Talkative, for sure."

Pursing her lips, she says absolutely nothing, still wrapped in her rainbow interview outfit. She's so tense, he shoulders are about to touch the ceiling.

Smirking at her off-putting body language, I say, "You need to relax."

She shoots me a dirty glare. "Who says I'm not relaxed?"

I lean over to grab her hand and brush my thumb across the ends of her fingers. "Your nonexistent fingernails, for starters. And you've been pretty quiet since the interviews."

Her eyes widen, and she pulls away from my grasp. "So? I'm not scared."

"I never said you were scared, Valorie."

"Good," she says, crossing her arms and looking through the window at the bright nighttime city. "Because I'm not."

I've seen people like her before, feigning fearlessness when nothing could be further from the truth. I don't get why fear has to be such a taboo emotion. Everyone experiences it at one point or another. Even I'm afraid of the situation that I'm in, but I choose to acknowledge it and move on, rather than keep my thoughts and feelings bottled up like my district partner. Existing as the definition of a human stress ball just doesn't appeal to me.

Turning slightly, she opens her mouth to speak, but pauses before any words come forth. Furrowing her brow, she asks, "Is it really that obvious?"

The actors on the holo-screen laugh at one of their stupid sit-com jokes. "What? The fear?"

She nods.

"Yeah, a bit," I admit, "but you have to remember that I've been living with you for the past three days. I know you better than most of Panem. And besides, it's not like they'll point at the screen and say, 'Oh, she looks the most afraid! That one right there!'" I let out a strained laugh, genuinely unable to understand her reasoning. "I guarantee that every other tribute is just as scared as you are. In fact, the Careers are probably shitting their pants right now. They've just been trained to hide it."

Drumming her fingers on the armrest, she averts her gaze. "Maybe."

I take the remote and turn off the television. "If you want to talk about it, I'm listening."

She shakes her head with a scowl. "You aren't my therapist."

"No, but I'm your friend."

Her eyes widen, and the mask cracks. Just a little, but it's still progress.

A muffled thump sounds from the floor above us, followed by what sounds like a sheepish apology. I wonder how the other district pairs are coping. On one hand, I want them to be happy, but on the other hand, I want to live. And I'd rather fight people who can't figure out how to work together.

Actually, I'd rather fight no one at all.

"Well?" I ask, resting my feet on the table.

If it weren't so sad, I'd laugh at the sheer confusion in her expression. Hesitantly, she says, "I just don't want to look weak. And... and fear is weakness."

A few seconds of silence pass, before I furrow my brow and frown. Is that really her reason? Vanity? "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"What?" She flies to her feet, red hair twirling as she jabs her index finger at me. "I spill my guts, and you call me stupid?"

"You aren't stupid, Valorie, but your ideas sure are. 'Fear is weakness'? Give me a break. _Weakness_ is weakness." I rise from the couch, stifling a yawn, and throw a glance at my mentor, Ecker. He inclines his head, encouraging me to speak further. "You know what we call people who never feel fear? Stupid."

Before Valorie has the chance to disagree with me, Cecelia speaks up. "He's right, Valorie. No one expects you to go into the arena and feel nothing. You're only human."

"Other peoples' opinions of you don't matter nearly as much as your own," I say. "Stop caring so much about what they think. It'll only get in the way."

She clenches her fists, but her face falls. She knows she can't win this argument.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she says, before spinning on her heels and disappearing into her room.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. But I have enough sense to know that, by focusing half of her energy on other peoples' thoughts, she won't have enough energy to keep herself alive in the arena.

* * *

**Rufous Mineheimer, District Thirteen Male**

* * *

My eyes snap open and I try to grasp at the frayed edges of my dream, but it disintegrates before I can remember what it was about. Light glows around the edges of the drawn curtains, marking the beginning of another day.

Something is wrong. I can't get the clammy, stuck-in-my-gut feeling to go away. It's like my clothes are sticking too tight, and the sky is too close but I don't know why. Why do I feel so sick?

_Launch day._

Oh. Right. Do or die.

Though I try to fall back asleep, the anxiety ensures that I spend the next ten minutes staring up at the ceiling, wondering how much better it would have been if I'd just volunteered like my mother wanted me to. Either way, I'd still be here. But if I volunteered, at least she wouldn't hate me.

A gentle knock sounds from the door. "Rufous?"

"I'm awake," I say, throwing the covers off of me. "Be out in a minute."

Hesitantly, I crack the closet door open, where I am greeted by hundreds of shirts, pants, shorts, undergarments, ties, jackets, accessories, and some metal headpiece that looks like a helmet, though I'm not so sure. Too many choices. The number of clothes that we tributes can choose from is absolutely mind-boggling, especially considering that this massive collection probably pales in comparison to the average closet of District Zero. If they spent less money on their ridiculous fashion, maybe the rest of Panem wouldn't be ready to rebel on a moment's notice.

After scouring the confined space for the most normal outfit I can find, I hurry into the kitchen, still wrestling a plain gray tee-shirt over my head.

"Good morning," Evaine says, picking through a colorful bowl of fruit. "How did you sleep?"

"Pretty well, all things considered." I plop myself down at the table, unable to conjure an appetite for the plates of food laid before me. "It took a while to fall asleep, though. I couldn't get my thoughts to settle down."

She nods. "Same here."

"I kept thinking about what sort of environment we'll get." I pick at the steaming stack of pancakes and crinkle my nose. "I hope it's an indoor arena."

Evaine looks up from her breakfast, eyebrows drawn together in curiosity. "Why?"

"I hate the outdoors." Twisting my napkin into little knots of tissue, I shake my head. "In all honesty, I don't even like the fact that Coin made us relocate. There's too much dirt in the new place."

"How odd," Evaine says, placing a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "I've never met anyone who wanted to go back."

Azura sets down her news tablet. "That's actually a common sentiment among the general population." She flicks her wrist to the side, letting the spoon dangle between her thumb and forefinger. "After spending so many years underground, it can be very difficult to adjust to life on the surface."

"Do you miss the bunkers, too?"

She scoffs and turns her attention back to the screen. "Absolutely not. I like the sun."

I look down at the table. Apparently no one agrees with me. "Oh."

Noticing my empty plate, Evaine nudges my shoulder with the type of camaraderie that she only shows to Ionette and me when the other tributes aren't around. "Eat something. You'll need your strength when the Game starts."

Nothing looks good, though. The adrenaline keeps messing with my stomach, and I'm afraid that if I eat anything, I'll end up barfing on national television. But to appease her, I take a pear from the plate of fruit and cut it up into tiny, manageable portions. Fitting the thinnest slice into my mouth, I stare out at the city. The skyscrapers glimmer under the rising sun and various hovercraft navigate the skyline. Today could be the last day I ever see it.

Today could be the last day I ever do a lot of things.

Pushing away from the table, I say, "Let me know when we're supposed to go."

Azura glances up with suspicion. "Where are you going?"

"Just to the balcony. I want to memorize the view before I leave."

* * *

**Zea Tillman, District Eleven Female**

* * *

"We're gonna be fine," I say, patting Ky's hair down. "We just need to find each other, then run away from everyone else as fast as possible."

He pushes my hand away. "I know the plan, Zea. I'm not a little kid. Stop patronizing me."

I sigh. He thinks he's so intelligent and mature, and to a certain degree, he is. But he's still thirteen, and though I'm not much older, it gets a little annoying when he pretends to be such an old soul all the time. I wonder how long it will take him to realize that his general dislike of other people is just as much his own fault as it is everyone else's? He spends so much time thinking about how adult he is that he doesn't spare a thought for other peoples' motivations and experiences. But he's my ally, and friendship with him admittedly has more positive aspects than negative ones. We're here to support each other.

"Now," Seeder says, unable to keep her voice from wavering, "you will board the hovercraft, which will take you to your stylists. They will give you your outfits for the arena, and then... the Game begins." She smiles, and her face crinkle with a hundred line at once. Especially the corners of her eyes. "But you won't be alone. Will and I are both here for you. We'll offer you as much assistance as possible."

I nod gratefully. "Understood."

Someone knocks on the penthouse door, sending my heart into full gallop. Is it really time to go?

Two peacekeepers stand in the hallway, here to escort Ky and me to the roof, where the hovercraft will take us to our stylists. I'm a little surprised by the level of security here, but I guess they just want to make sure that their chosen tributes make it safely to the arena before we die.

Seeder and Will aren't allowed to accompany us, so the peacekeepers walk on either side of Ky and me, their faces hidden by reflective helmets. I wonder if they feel any remorse, or even realize that they're leading two kids to their deaths? Probably not. They most likely get their humanity beaten out of them in training. I can't imagine any other justification for their cruelty and violence. No sane person could ever be a peacekeeper.

A delicately-built Avox greets at the rooftop entryway. The hovercraft sends waves of wind across the cement, sandblasting my legs with tiny pebbles and whipping my hair around my face. The Avox's white shirt flutters in the wind as he bows to us. With a feigned smile, he gestures that we follow him.

The pairs from One and Twelve reach the ramp at the same time we do, but we let the others board first. The boy from One and Ionette don't acknowledge us, but Amelithe and Nix both incline their heads with gratitude.

I take my seat next to Ky and strap myself in just as the lady with the big needle asks me to hold out my arm. Hesitantly, I obey, and she digs the metal deep into my skin. Hissing with pain, I watch the tracker slide down the needle and into the crook of my elbow. Even though I know it's been specifically designed to remain unnoticeable, it still itches underneath my skin, and a part of me wants to dig it out, regardless of the pain. But that would probably cause more problems than it would solve.

Sitting across the aisle, Fenby from Ten gives me a warm smile. Even though I don't trust her or her gigantic alliance, I smile back. She tried to recruit me and Kyrie, but I turned her down because her reasoning was flawed. She seems to think that more allies means higher chances of survival, but after a certain point it'll just paint a bigger target on her back. The Careers aren't blind. And aside from that, I honestly can't think of a reason why she'd ask us. As much as I'd like to pretend that she wanted us for our talents, I know that's just wishful thinking.

"So," Lapis says. Due to our seating arrangement, he sits directly across from the pink-haired District Zero girl. With narrowed eyes and an impish grin, he says to her, "I have a question for you that I never got the chance to ask during training."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He lowers his voice and leans a little closer to her. "Does the carpet match the drapes?"

A stunned silence descends over the entire cabin. The girl's jaw drops, and before Lapis has time to react, her boot slams into his shin. He yelps, and her cheeks flush a deep shade of crimson.

The boy from One laughs and clasps his hand over his eyes, and Lapis's district partner elbows him sharply in the ribs, both embarrassed by their ally's immaturity. The boy from Zero rests his hand on the girl's shoulder, and her cheeks lighten by a few shades.

Lapis glares at her, obviously surprised by her act of retaliation.

"Serves you right," I mutter, too quiet for him to hear.

If he thinks that the rest of us won't fight back simply because we aren't Careers, he has another thing coming.

* * *

**Ionette Exon, District Twelve Female**

* * *

My stylist gently combs my hair, lightly running her fingernails across my scalp as if I'm some sort of pet. "I'm going to miss you so much. You're one of those lucky people who can wear anything. It made my job so much easier."

_And everyone knows you need all the help you can get._

She sets the comb down and places both of her hands on top of my head. "It's a shame that you and Nix didn't get along. You two would have made such adorable district partners. It would have been doubly adorable if you were allies."

I take hold of her wrists and pry her off of me. "My current alliance is fine, thank you very much."

With wide eyes, she says, "Calm down, sweetie. I'm simply saying that passing up Sterling Loaker was a missed opportunity." She closes her eyes and smiles. "Mmm. I hope he wins just so I can stare at him some more. You'd get to be with Fenby, too, if you swing that way. She's quite pretty." Arching an eyebrow, she pats my shoulders. "I guess they know how to grow 'em in District Ten." With a wink, she adds, "Know what I mean?"

Her insinuations are nothing short of idiotic. "I prefer to choose my allies based on how far they'll take me, not how handsome or pretty they are. Beauty gets us nowhere once the Game begins."

"Tell that to the sponsors, honey. They like pretty people."

As true as that may be, nothing she says will convince me that I made a bad decision. I don't hate Nix, or Sterling or Fenby, but nothing can change the fact that they and their ancestors are scum. The twelve lower districts started the First Rebellion, and even after that glaring failure, they had the audacity to start the Second Rebellion. Because of them, Panem will never again enjoy the peace it once had.

And yet, because of my father's weakness, I was forced to live among the ilk of District Twelve. He couldn't bear to continue existing in the place where my mother died, and even after District Thirteen relocated to the aboveground settlement, his heart was already set upon living with our neighbors in Twelve. He was desperate for a fresh start among those who had greater need for his medical knowledge. Ans as the patriarch of our family, of course he got his way.

By birth, Evaine and Rufous are my kinsmen. Nix is not. I owe him no allegiance, and I'll be cast into the radioactive wastelands before I put myself through the indignity of joining his merry band of fools.

"Anyways," my stylist says, holding out a pile of gray clothing, "this is your outfit. The fabric is loose, breathable, and designed to both wick away moisture and dry exceptionally fast. You'll probably end up in a temperate arena, likely tropical. Be careful of the mosquitoes." Grinning to herself like an idiot, she averts her eyes as I strip completely and don the required arena outfit. It's surprisingly comfortable.

"Do I get any shoes?" I ask, pulling the short-sleeved, loosely fitting shirt over my head.

Gloria shakes her head. "Nope. No shoes. Hopefully there won't be too many pointy things on the ground."

I roll my eyes. "No, really."

Before she has the chance to scold me for being so sardonic, a resonating voice says, "The Game shall commence in two minutes. I repeat, the Game shall commence in two minutes."

My heart jumps into my throat. This could be it. I should have paid more attention to the sunrise this morning. It could very well have been my last.

I may never see Deck or Bo or father again.

They might have to bury me.

As I step into the clear plastic tube, my vision goes a little blurry, but I sweep the tears away before Gloria has the chance to see. The door slides shut, and my ears pop from the pressure change. It must be an airtight seal.

The plate jolts and I begin to ascend, up towards the light. I give Gloria a final wave before the cement ceiling blocks our line of sight. I rise into the open air, momentarily blinded by a ray of sunlight that beams directly into my eyes. As soon as I'm completely aboveground, the plastic tube sinks into the earth, and a thin layer of lukewarm water washes over my feet and ankles.

"60."

I blanch at the sound. One minute. One single minute.

The Cornucopia sits in the middle of the circular room on a mound of sand. It looks like a giant shell, the big kind that I learned about in school. A conch, if I recall correctly. Spikes stick out of the top and sides, and a soft pink curls around the inside of the structure. Weapons gleam inside, accompanied by black crates that probably hold food and other survival equipment.

"37."

The air smells odd, like salt and sand. A series of elegant pillars line the curved border between the flooded sand and open ocean, holding up the slightly-domed ceiling. Far past the pillars, a thin strip of sand sits at the other end of the lagoon, sparsely dotted with palm trees and low-lying bushes. Black stone cliffs jut out of the trees, rising into the sky, but the stone wall blocks the majority of my view. Beyond the sand, though, blue sky and calm ocean stretch to the horizon.

"21."

Evaine stands eight plates to my left, while Rufous stands eleven plates to my right. We each exchange a look of fear, because we are _here_ and the next few minutes could spell the end for any one of us. Maybe all three.

"8."

I have to focus. Evaine and Rufous are important, but I am my own top priority.

"4."

I will see my family and friends again.

"3."

Get in, grab some stuff, get out with my allies.

"2."

Simple plan. Don't mess it up.

"1."

_I can do this._

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Eighty-First Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

* * *

**People start dying next chapter. If your tribute is among them, I apologize. I have a lot of great characters this time around, and I've honestly agonized over this decisions for weeks now. That being said, now that we've seen a bit of everyone, there's a poll on my profile and even if you don't have a tribute in Sand Castles, I'd like to know your opinion. The results may or may not influence the death order. **

**Ionette gave us a few glimpses of the arena. Any ideas on what it is?**

**Who do you think will die in the bloodbath? Who do you want to die?**

**Finalized alliances have been posted on the blog. These will change as the arena progresses, and I will update the alliances chapter-to-chapter.**

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


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